


Knots in the Warp and Weft

by Arcadian_Writer



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action/Adventure, Doctor Who References, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fictional Do-Gooder Vigilante Group ala Impossible Mission Force, M/M, Modern Boy in Thedas, Modern Character in Thedas, Modern Girl in Thedas, Rating May Change, References to events in unwritten DA2 fic, Romance, monty python references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2020-09-04 00:37:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 49,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20254903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcadian_Writer/pseuds/Arcadian_Writer
Summary: When Fen'harel's plan goes awry, a divine power reaches through time and space to bring seven people from another world into Thedas, hoping that they can provide aid in healing the gaping wounds in reality caused by the cataclysmic event at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. However, said power does not know that another, similar plan, but on a smaller scale, was already set into motion by another power ten years prior, when a stranger fell into the company of refugees fleeing from the Fereldan Blight.Now, their plans collide as the Breach tears the skies and Elder Ones rise, and these otherworldly people with their otherworldly knowledge and otherworldly ways stand with the Inquisition in an attempt to stop the coming apocalypse.





	1. Another Day, Another Mission

**Author's Note:**

> Dragon Age: Inquisition © Bioware
> 
> Original Characters © Arcadian Writer
> 
> Everything else © respective owners

_“Eagle to Raven. This is Eagle to Raven. Are you there?”_

Teresa Andrada snapped out of the little reverie she’d drifted into, and forced herself to focus on the multiple screens in front of her that displayed the status of her teammates (friends, family really, but for now, in the middle of an op, they were her teammates) out on the field. “Raven to Eagle, I’m right here.”

A soft sigh that could have been exasperation or relief emanated through the comm unit she wore clipped to her left ear. _“Right. Anyway: what’s our status?_”

Teresa flicked through the screens, her fingers skating over glass as she swapped through various menus and displays, occasionally dropping her hands down to the projection keyboard gridded out in red laser lines on the only clear space of the table left in front of her. She had a brief memory of her sister, Serafina, being able to type with one hand while she moved screens with the other – but that memory had no place right now, in this moment. Not when the information she had to give could mean the difference between life or death for the team.

Finally, she pulled up the information she needed, and she tapped the earpiece to open the line. “Eagle, this is Raven. Surveillance cameras show no change as of the last ten minutes.”

_“Then that means Magpie’s program took.”_

Soft laughter over the comms. _“Of course it did. I made it, didn’t I? Plus it’s not like their security was really all that hard to crack.”_

“And thank the gods for that,” Teresa muttered.

A chorus of chuckles responded to her quip. _“Well, if the surveillance cameras are as shot as they are, then we might as well get started. Good luck everyone, and keep safe.”_

Everyone responded with their “Yes sirs” in the affirmative (with one lone “_Ryokai_”), and they began to move, per their individual objectives.

Teresa remembered what that was like. The taste of adrenaline in the back of her mouth when she got the go-signal. The flash of satisfaction when everything went as it should. The sickening twist of her stomach whenever something did not go as planned (which was always, since no plan ever survived contact with the enemy), followed soon after by the thrill of victory when she, or someone else, salvaged what had gone wrong. And then the rise of joy, of relief, when she saw the faces of her teammates again at the end of it all, knowing they had done another job well, and contributed to the betterment of the world in doing so. They were Nest, after all: the best bunch of do-gooder vigilantes in the world, who did what they could, oftentimes illegally, to make the world a better place.

Gods, but what she wouldn’t give to be out in the field again. It was where she belonged, damn it. She’d never intended – never wanted - to be the bird in the cage.

Teresa and Serafina were more or less matched in terms of their skills, but they had their preferences. Serafina had been Raven because she preferred being in the Aerie (their term for the mobile surveillance unit Nest set up in the vicinity of every op) handling surveillance, data, logistics, and tactics, looking over the team’s shoulders to make sure everyone was where they needed to be when they did what they needed to do at the best time to do it. Teresa had been Hummingbird because she preferred being out on the field, flitting in and out of the shadows to stealthily thieve what they needed, or take down those who needed to be taken down. Teresa could be Raven if she had to, and Serafina could be Hummingbird if she had to, but they both knew what they were best at.

And then Serafina had disappeared. “_Nawala parang bula,” _her grandmother said: gone like a soap bubble. She had evaporated – and that had been hard on all of them, because _they_ were the ones who were supposed to disappear people, not the other way around. They’d made a great many dangerous enemies, to be sure, any one of who could have taken Serafina, but they turned every single stone and came up with nothing. Not even taking Edward off his leash and pointing him at those enemies had given them anything.

And so they’d gone back to what they usually did. There was so much wrong with the world, and so many people responsible for that wrongness that their little group couldn’t just stop and wait until one member of their little cobbled-together family came back – no matter how beloved said person was. Besides, Serafina wouldn’t have wanted them to stop and wait for her. They had a job to do, and she would have wanted them to keep on doing it.

So ten years went by after Serafina’s disappearance, and in the meantime they continued on. Teresa stepped off the field in the second year after her sister’s disappearance, left behind Hummingbird to become their team’s Raven – a decision she’d come to partially on her own, and partially on the recommendation of her cousin Raphael, and her _sensei_ and field partner, Ichiro. Ichiro could easily do the things that Teresa had been doing, though it left their team with a little less flexibility having just one infiltration specialist (“_Shinobi_,” Teresa remembered Ichiro saying, with immense dignity) on the field. Still, it was a manageable problem. Not having someone in the Aerie running tactics and logistics for them was far less easily managed.

And so here Teresa was, watching her team do what they did best, and having nothing to do with it herself. Or at least, having nothing to do with it in the way she _wanted_ to.

“Still miss it, don’t you.”

Teresa jolted out of her thoughts, and glanced over her shoulder at the speaker. She offered a wan smile. “Was I that obvious, Elie?”

Elinor Westhaven-Andrada (who otherwise went by Owl on the comms) gave Teresa a small smile in return as she rolled an office chair over to sit beside her, the wheels making no sound over the carpet that covered the floor of the nondescript office space they had rented for the duration of their operation. She leaned her head of (gorgeous, enviable) platinum blonde hair on Teresa’s shoulder, never mind that Teresa was shorter than her. But Elinor, once not given to casual touching and physical affection, had become significantly more touchy-feely in the wake of her marriage to Raphael two years ago, and Teresa liked it that she was. The Andrada family was a demonstrably affectionate one, with a marked preference for physical contact to convey that affection. Teresa loved Elinor, always had, but she loved it even more that the other woman had picked up on how the Andradas liked to convey that love to those they cared about.

“You are,” Elinor said, responding to Teresa’s question. “But that’s understandable. You’re a brilliant field agent. You know where you belong. And it’s not here.”

Teresa felt her shoulders sag, and she knew just how deeply they’d sagged when Elinor straightened a little before resettling again. “I know, but what can we do? They need me here more than they do out there.”

“True. And you are doing a good job here as well.”

“Not as good as Fina would’ve.”

Teresa thought she’d bitten back the bitterness in her tone, but Elinor seemed to pick it up anyway.

Her cousin-in-law’s arm wound around her shoulders, and Elinor said, in that firm tone of voice that no one argued against, not even their leader: “You’re what we need, here and now. Nest is still going because of that. I know you hate it when James says that every one of us is replaceable, and you know that James doesn’t believe that any more than you do, but he does have a point, in his own way.

“And besides,” Elinor added, her tone becoming softer, “I like the idea of you making sure that Rafe comes home to us. You or Fina, it wouldn’t matter; as long as one of his cousins is here in the Aerie, I can rest assured knowing that you’d do your utmost to bring him home.”

Teresa giggled, but nodded in agreement as she put an arm around Elinor. “Damn straight. Hook or crook, hell or high water.”

After Elinor’s affirming nod, the two of them fell silent, watching the progress of the field team through the building across the street. They were in the building to retrieve documents that, according to Lydia (Magpie, as she went on the comms), detailed a method for taking nuclear waste and refining it down into something useable. While there were interesting applications for the idea – not least being the recycling of nuclear waste into a useable form of energy – the stuff could still be made into weapons. Nowhere near as powerful as the radioactive materials that went into actual nuclear bombs, of course, but lethal enough to make all those nightmares of suitcase-sized dirty bombs into reality.

Count on humanity, she thought, to make something that could be beneficial and then turn it right around and use it as a weapon.

But that was why Nest existed. They did their work, unacknowledged and unheard-of except by a very select few, so that humanity could keep on going as it normally did for one day more. Now, if only certain portions humanity would stop being so _stupid_ and voting potential dictators into power—

_“Kestrel to Raven. This is Kestrel to Raven. Come in.”_

Teresa snapped into action, tapping the comm unit in her head, before poising her hands in front of the touchscreens, ready to go at any moment. “Raven to Kestrel. What do you need?”

A soft grunt of effort, as if the person on the other end of the line were trying to move something and was failing miserably at it. _“I can’t get this fucking door open. Can you see what’s on the other side? Maybe there’s a lock you or Magpie can open from there.”_

“On it.” Teresa flicked through a few screens, pinpointing her cousin’s location, and then bringing up the appropriate camera feeds to get the information she needed. “Nope, sorry, the lock’s a standard one. Nothing I or Magpie can open from here.” She did a double take as she compared the location of the room to one of the maps open on another screen, and her eyes widened. “Shit, that’s the office where the documents are!”

_“Fucking hell. So close yet so far.”_ Through the camera feeds, Teresa watched as her cousin contemplated the door, then took a few steps away, lowered his shoulder, and then rammed the door in an attempt to bring it down.

That didn’t work though, since the thing was apparently a lot sturdier than he’d anticipated, and as a result Teresa watched her cousin bounce right off the flat surface and yelp a pained _“Ow!”_ over the comms, stumbling a few steps back as he clutched his shoulder.

Elinor stiffened at the sight of her husband bouncing off the door. She plucked Teresa’s comm unit from her ear, put it in her own, and tapped it. “Owl to Kestrel. This is Owl to Kestrel.”

_“Kestrel to Owl. Yes dear?”_

“If you try to do something that bloody stupid again, I will reset your shoulder _without _the benefit of painkillers. Understood?”

_“Yes dear. Absolutely dear.”_

“Good.” Elinor closed the connection, then gave the comm unit back to Teresa. She sniffed, shaking her head. “Men.”

Teresa snickered quietly, and mimed cracking a bullwhip towards the screen with one hand as with the other she put the piece of technology back in her ear. Elinor responded with a smug smile and a solemn nod.

Another voice came on the line. _“I am already on it, Kestrel. Give me a moment.”_

On the screen that showed the interior of the office, Teresa watched as a ceiling tile was lifted, and down dropped Takenaka Ichiro into the space below, landing neatly on his feet before he padded over to the door, unlocking it and letting Raphael in.

Just then, the door to their office burst open, and in strode Edward Hanover. His long, lanky frame vibrated with a barely restrained tension as he held his hand out wordlessly to Teresa. His pale blue eyes were enervated, almost glowing – if eyes could glow.

Something was wrong. Something was very, _very_ wrong.

Teresa immediately yanked her comm unit out of her ear, and put it into Edward’s hand. 

The man threaded it into his ear, and tapped it. “Shrike to team. This is Shrike to team. The chick in my grasp finally squawked. There is a demolitions setup underneath the building. It will go off in five minutes. Find the documents and get out.”

Teresa felt the bottom of her stomach fall out as she got to her feet. Grabbing the comm unit from Edward, she fixed it back in her ear, even as her hands moved in quick swipes and jerks over the touchscreens in front of her. “Raven to team. This is Raven to team. Get your asses moving _A-SAP_. Your HUDs should tell you the fastest exit routes from your current locations.”

She glanced at Edward. “How much of the building is set to blow?”

“The entire building. The chick said they hired a demolitions firm to rig it up, but then they modified the setup so that they could trigger the detonations themselves.”

“_Shit._”

She relayed that information to the team, and over the storm of curses and swearing James Reeves (Eagle, on the comms) said: _“You heard the Raven, everyone. Kestrel, Hayabusa, do you have the documents?”_ Upon hearing affirmatives from both men, he continued:_ “Magpie, are you ready with getaway?”_

_“Ready and waiting,” _Lydia affirmed.

_“Good. See you all on the other side. Over and out.” _

Teresa glanced at Elinor, who immediately dashed out of the room to collect her things and get out. Edward, on the other hand, stayed and started helping her fold up the entire portable tech unit the Raven always operated from. Once everything was folded away, the taller man carried the heavier of the two suitcases, while Teresa took up the second one. As they stepped out of the office space they saw Elinor exit from another door a little further down the hall from them, suitcases dangling from both her hands. Teresa knew that inside those suitcases were the tools of Elinor’s trade as a trauma surgeon: everything she could possibly need to either take care of minor injuries, or stabilize major ones long enough until they could get to a discreet hospital.

Elinor shot them a look, and the three of them headed for the fire exit, jogging down the many flights of stairs as fast as their legs could carry them. They knew Lydia would be waiting at the bottom with the getaway van – likely with the rest of their team already inside. What mattered was whether or not there would be any nasty surprises waiting for them on their way down. Teresa sincerely hoped there were none, but kept herself loose and ready to act anyway.

Fortunately there weren’t any surprises waiting for them as they made their way down and out of the building, stepping out into the cold Chicago night as the fire exit door snapped closed behind them. The three of them looked right, then left, making sure that no one had seen them, then walked rapidly round the corner just as Lydia’s van pulled up next to the curb.

_Boom!_

Teresa jumped and whirled around at the massive explosion, and when she turned to look she saw the building where everyone had been in collapsing in on itself. As it did so, it was clear that the people who’d rigged up the detonations were likely a professional demolitions crew, because the building came down without a single piece of it damaging any of its neighbors.

“Raven! C’mon, let’s go!”

Teresa spun back around and hopped into the van, grabbing her cousin’s hand as he yanked her in, while James slammed the van door closed behind her, then smacked the ceiling to signal to Lydia that everyone was in and to get moving.

For a few tense minutes, no one moved, as if half-expecting for their getaway to go wrong – and it still could, as close as they were to the site of the blast. But after a handful of turns, Lydia slid open the divider separating the driver’s seat from the back of the van, and grinned at them via the rearview mirror.

“Coast’s clear,” she announced cheerily. “Radio chatter indicates that folks are surprised about the building coming down, but besides that, there’s nothing else.”

As if on cue, everyone except Edward uttered a soft sigh of relief, and James smiled at them all, his teeth white in the gloom of the van and against his deep mahogany skin as he sank into his seat across from Teresa, with Ichiro next to him. “Great job everyone.”

Beside Teresa Raphael slumped back against the van’s side, his body almost sagging in relief. “And Nest saves the fucking world once again.”

“Indeed,” Elinor remarked as she moved so that she was sitting on Raphael’s other side. But though the tone of her voice was light, there was a barely concealed edge underneath it and in her expression as she poked Raphael’s shoulder – the one he’d used to try and bring down the door earlier.

When her husband yelped in pain, her face dropped into a stern scowl. “Let me have a look at that.”

“Dear, it’s nothing, probably just a brui—”

“Hush you, or I will sit on you, and you will _not_ like it.”

At that, Raphael grinned, leering at his wife. “I like it when you sit on m—_Ow!_ Shit!”

Elinor had gripped Raphael’s arm hard, and her eyes narrowed as she glared at him. “One more word out of you, and I _will_ demote you to the couch. Just you see if I don’t, _dear._”

James uttered a long-suffering sigh at the two of them, but he still smiled. Meanwhile, Ichiro chuckled quietly as he shook his head. “You should know better by now, Rafe-_kun_. Do _not_ antagonize your wife – especially when she is the one tending to your injuries.”

Raphael grumbled something under his breath, and though Teresa didn’t catch the words she still chuckled to hear him. “Never poke the Owl” was a truism in Nest, and that went doubly so for her cousin, since he was married to Elinor.

On her other side, she felt Edward shift, and she glanced at him, a question springing to mind. “What did you do with the chick?” she asked, keeping her voice low. Edward referred to all his hostages as “chicks” - something to do with “keeping in theme with Nest”. Given Edward’s nature, though, the term was immensely creepy. Teresa suspected that was deliberate, too.

No one particularly liked talking to Edward. Though he was extremely intelligent (he’d had a brilliant career as a chemist working for a cutting-edge pharmaceutical company, before he’d come to Nest) he was also a psychopath. Given his intelligence and having had a good draw in the lottery of life, he’d managed to conceal his tendencies behind a façade of respectability – but that just made him even more dangerous. In another reality, he would have been a serial killer – the kind that came up only once every few generations: the kind that could not be caught.

But the thing about Edward was that he was surprisingly self-aware. He knew his failings and his weaknesses, understood his urges, and knew that if he did not do something, he would become a monster. And so, soon after joining Nest, he decided that in the absence of having a conscience, he would outsource that particular function to someone who did.

He chose the Andrada sisters for the job.

Serafina had tried, at first, to keep up with Edward and do her part in keeping him leashed, but she’d never particularly liked doing it, since she found him deeply creepy. Teresa, though, _had_ kept up – more than kept up, in fact. She understood that having someone like Edward – someone unencumbered by the moral and ethical scruples the rest of them had – could be useful. And besides, it was better than him being out in society without a leash, where he could transform into the monster he knew he was capable of becoming.

“I left them there,” Edward replied, his tone even and casual.

“What did you do with them?” she asked.

“I injected them with that serum I made up. A swift, quiet death, to soothe the pain that came before. A mercy, I think you would call it.” Edward paused, then glanced at Teresa. “That _was_ the right thing to do, was it not? I was inclined to leave them there and let the building crush them, but that was no guarantee they would die. Better a sure death than an uncertain one, no?”

Teresa nodded, meeting Edward’s cold, reptilian gaze. She’d had years to get used to it, but it never failed to unnerve her. She supposed that was a good thing. “Yes, Ed. It was the right thing to do.”

“You would not have chosen to just let them go? I supposed you might want to do that too.”

“No, I wouldn’t. I’d’ve done what you did.” Maybe not the way he’d done it, Teresa thought, but she’d’ve still killed the hostage. They were a bad person anyway, given what Lydia had managed to dig up about them. Anyone who made a dirty bomb and then tried to set it off in the middle of a city in some warped attempt to “jumpstart change” deserved to die. Not slowly and painfully, maybe, but they still deserved to die.

“Ah.” Seemingly satisfied (_could_ he feel satisfaction?) Edward turned away, and closed his eyes – not to sleep, Teresa knew, but to meditate.

Did he find solace in meditation? Did he find it calming? Was he just closing his eyes, or was he actually meditating? Teresa had had those questions for about seven or eight years now, but she’d never thought to ask Edward why he meditated. She wasn't sure if she really wanted to know.

She looked away from him, and met Ichiro’s gaze. Her erstwhile field partner flicked a brief glance at Edward, then glanced back at Teresa. One eyebrow went up in an inquiring expression, asking her, without words, the same wordless questions he always did at the end of every mission: if she was all right, if Edward was well – if he would need to put the psychopath down.

Teresa offered him a small smile, and shook her head. All was well, she did not say out loud, both with her and with Edward. There was no need to put the resident psychopath down – not that night, at any rate.

Ichiro remained still for a moment, but at length offered her an equally small smile, nodding in acknowledgement before he looked away from her, and started conversing with James in tones soft enough that she could not quite understand what they were saying over the rumble of the engine.

In the quiet that always descended upon their team after an op, Teresa felt herself slipping into a doze. Before her awareness completely left her, she reached up to her chest, and stroked the pendant that hung on a leather cord around her neck, shielded by the fabric of her clothes: a little silver sword as long as her thumb. Everyone else on the team had one: a gift from Serafina just before she disappeared, given to them as a kind of good luck charm.

In these moments, Teresa liked to think that Serafina was still with them, in her own way, watching over them from wherever she was.

“_Miss na kita _sis,” she murmured as her hand dropped to her lap, her eyelids drooping finally over her eyes as she leaned her head on Raphael’s shoulder. “And thanks.”

\-----

They shone with a light they could not see. Even the one who did not feel, he shone, albeit his was the light of a dark star compared to the lambent brightness of his companions.

They were what she needed.

So she reached out through the gaps in the universes, stretching herself and her powers to reach out to them. It was fortunate that they bore her symbol around their throats: the sword of mercy, the tips pointing downwards, at rest, until taken up and pointed with purpose.

Like the swords they wore, she would take them and lift them up, and hold back the coming dark – the dark that was coming for Thedas, for the world she had left behind, but still loved, despite its flaws.

She wrapped the threads of her power around those brilliant souls in the other world, focusing on the swords they wore. Symbols had power, she knew, and though they did not know her, had no connection to her, the fact remained that the sword was one of her symbols, and through it she could pour her power between the worlds and take them.

A stab of guilt pricked at her briefly. She was what she was, now, but she’d never forgotten who she’d once been, had refused to let her Divine Husband remake her so completely that she forgot who she’d been before. Guilt was one of those things she didn’t want to let go, and she felt it because she knew what these people did for their world, knew that they, too, were holding back the darkness.

But they were just a few among many others. An effective few, true, but just a few among many. And Thedas needed them more.

Damn Fen’harel. Damn the Dread Wolf for his shortsightedness, for his inability to break away from the patterns that had set him on this path in the first place. She wondered how he could have failed to see the destruction that lay ahead, given how intelligent he was, how sharp and cunning, and yet, here they were.

To be fair, she could not see the future, even given who she was now. But one didn’t need divine foresight to see what lay at the end of the course Fen’harel had tracked for himself and his people.

It was time she acted. She saw what happened during the Blight, how narrowly disaster had been averted. And while that was going on, she watched the slow unfolding of events in Kirkwall, and knew that it was time to stop resting on her hands, stop simply pleading for mercy, and _act_.

Mercy, hope, the right to live_, _the right to _freedom,_ to _love_ – these were not things one waited for. They were things one _fought for._ She’d known that, a lifetime ago. She shouldn’t have forgotten.

She should have done something a long time ago.

Well, thought Andraste, Bride of the Maker, as with one almighty yank, she pulled the threads and those at their ends from one world into another, even as she felt Corypheus tap into the power of the sphere given to him by Fen’harel, even as the Veil shrieked and tore, even as voices rose in anguish and anger and death - perhaps it was not too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRANSLATIONS:
> 
> Ryokai - Japanese; "Roger that" or "Affirmative"
> 
> Nawala parang bula – Filipino phrase, with the translation and meaning already provided in the fic itself. 
> 
> Miss na kita sis – Taglish for “Miss you sis.” Taglish is a portmanteau term for “Tagalog-English,” meaning the speaker mixes English words in while speaking Tagalog (the language on which Filipino is based). It’s used most frequently in Metro Manila, to the point that it can be considered the region’s local dialect. Fluency in its use is dependent upon relative fluency in English and Filipino/Tagalog.


	2. The Sphere Comes Through 600 Feet Above London

They’d been hit by a truck, or a tank – something big and powerful, anyway. Or there’d been a bomb under the van and it had blown up. Good thing they’d thought to install shielding, or she’d likely be in a lot more pain – and a lot more pieces – than she was right then.

Either way, those were the only explanations for why Teresa felt the way she did: pain singing from every nerve, a point of intense heat radiating from just beneath her collarbone. Broken sternum? Likely. The fact that the heat was dying down to a dull ache as she slowly returned to consciousness just confirmed that for her – though it might not have been _that_ bad a break, because when she inhaled she—

“Ack!” She uttered a soft, involuntary wheezing sound as her throat got coated in dust. Dust? How the hell did that happen? Wasn’t she in a hospital?

She cracked her eyes open a little, and was greeted by darkness and the smell of damp. Not a hospital then, but…still on the street? Had she rolled out of the van somehow, when it had gotten hit or blown up? Gotten thrown out? No, that couldn’t be. The doors latched from the inside, and she’d taken the seat in the middle, between Edward who sat closest to the barrier between the back and the driver, and Raphael, who’d had Elinor on his other side. That would mean Elinor was the one closest to the door. And there were no windows to roll or get thrown out of.

She realized then that she was lying on her stomach, her left cheek pressed against the ground and her limbs sprawled around her in awkward angles. She shifted, tried to move her arms and legs under her so she could push herself up, but got nowhere as the pain brightened in intensity and she could do nothing but groan.

That must have gotten someone’s attention, because she heard a soft scuffing sound coming closer towards her. “Tessa?”

Raphael. She groaned again, a bit louder this time, and felt hands grip her and turn her over.

“Oh thank _fuck_,” her cousin murmured, his voice edged with worry and something else she can’t quite place. One hand let go of her and started to pat her on the cheek, bringing her closer to full consciousness. “C’mon cuz, we need you awake. Like, fucking _now_.”

“Tell that to the person who drove the godsdamn _tank_ through our van because _ow_,” Teresa growled, but she finally opened her eyes to find her cousin staring down at her, his face streaked with grime and a shocky expression that told her something wasn’t quite right.

“What just happened?” she asked, eyes narrowing as she squinted at her cousin – then at the ceiling above him. It looked like rough-hewn rock, but it was hard to tell with so little light in the room. Where _was_ the light coming from, anyway? She turned her head towards the source – and swore her eyes nearly popped out of her skull.

Torches. _Torches_. Torches in _sconces_ like in _Game of Thrones_ or any number of medieval fantasy or historical shows or films. As adrenaline cleared the last of the concussion fog (it _was_ just a concussion, right? Gods, where was Elinor?) she realized that the room they were in was made of roughly dressed stone – and there were bars going the length of one side of the room they were in.

Correction: _cell_. They were in a prison – a _dungeon_.

“What in the actual ever-living godsdamned _fuck_ is going on?” she demanded as she sat up slowly so that her brain could get used to the notion of gravity again and stop making the world spin.

In another cell across from her, she heard Edward speak up: “I can hear that Raven is awake. Excellent. I was wondering how quickly you would recover.”

“Where’re the others?” Teresa asked as she dragged herself over to the bars, grasping them and using them to haul herself up, her cousin supporting her as she tried to get back on her feet.

“Eagle is with me in this cell. He is breathing and he has a pulse, but he is still unconscious. Owl and Hayabusa are in that one over there.” Teresa’s eyes had adjusted to the light of the torches, so she saw how Edward waved his hand towards the cell next to his. There were two prone figures inside: one with a shock of blonde hair, the other dark. Neither was moving.

“Shit,” Teresa swore. She looked around again, and realized that one of them was missing. “Where’s Ly- Magpie?”

“She was in the cell with us,” Raphael replied, his voice low. “But they came and took her out for fucking questioning.”

“Shit on a hot stick.” She didn't think Lydia would spill all the beans about Nest – that wasn’t what she was worried about. No, she was worried about what they would _do_ to her to get her to spill the beans. And if this dungeon were any indication, they’d resort to medieval methods – _literally._

Which begged the question: what _were_ they doing in a medieval dungeon anyway?

She turned to her cousin. “What the fuck is all this?” She waved a hand at their surroundings to indicate the entire situation they’d found themselves in.

“No fucking clue,” Raphael replied promptly, and from the tone of his voice and the frustration knotting his brow, that was the truth. “I just remember feeling like someone dropped me from the top of a fucking cliff, and when I woke up fully I was here, you were there, and they were pulling Magpie out for questioning.

“But here’s the thing: those people? Looked like fucking_ LARPers_. Armor, swords, shields, the whole fucking _shebang_. And they were _serious_ about it: not a single one of them broke character. Fucking Christ, some of them actually _clanked _when they moved.”

Teresa just frowned more deeply. “There’s no LARP event ongoing in or around Chicago, and definitely _not_ one with a medieval setting. I know. I checked.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“And there’s no buildings with this kind of stonework in or around Chicago either.”

“Again: no shit, Sherlock.”

“So where the fuck are we?”

“No fucking clue, Sherlock.”

Teresa’s mind spun. “Okay, so: we got taken by LARPers—”

“Very dedicated LARPers,” Raphael interjected.

“—and we’re now in some medievally-looking building with an equally legit medievally dungeon and being held hostage. Any idea who took us, exactly?”

“They call themselves the Inquisition,” Edward said, having found his way to the bars of his own cell so he could talk to them better.

A smirk tugged unexpectedly at Teresa’s lips. “Inquisition, huh? Well, none of us expected them, that’s for sure.”

Edward flashed a tight, I’m-doing-this-only-because-it’s-expected smile at the joke, before his expression smoothed over into his usual serious expression. “As I was saying. They call themselves the Inquisition; though they are nothing like any Inquisition we are familiar with. According to what I overheard when they were pulling Magpie out of here, they found us in a field just outside their base, which they call Haven.”

“Found us?”

“Lying in the dirt, unconscious. We fell out of something they called a ‘rift’. It is because of those circumstances that that they are keeping us down here.” Edward shrugged. “If this is a LARP, then I suppose Haven is a faction base of some kind, and these rifts are an element of the game setting – perhaps something that lets them integrate new participants with minimal effort. Though I do wonder why they would include a random group of strangers in their game. They cannot be so hard up for participants that they would resort to kidnapping.”

“You know how the fuck a LARP works?” Raphael asked, his voice tinged with surprise.

Edward shrugged, but said nothing to explain how he knew about LARPs.

Teresa opened her mouth to ask more questions about their situation – if Edward had heard anything at all that might give them a clue as to where they were, up to and including accents – but was cut short by the clattering sound of a heavy wooden door opening on somewhat-rusty hinges.

“—right _now_, because I don’t know if they’re actually okay.”

“Magpie?” Teresa called, and almost instantly Lydia was there, her elegant features creased with worry.

“Thank the gods you're awake,” Lydia murmured, reaching between the bars to clasp Teresa’s hands tightly. She looked over her shoulder, and snapped: “Let them out. You promised you would.”

“And we shall do so,” said a woman with a low, oddly accented voice. She was standing in front of the door to the dungeon, too far away from the light of the torches for Teresa to see her features. “Provided you ensure that you keep to your end of our bargain.”

“Bargain?” Alarmed, Teresa turned to Lydia. “Magpie, what—”

Lydia shook her head. “No more codenames, Tessa. We’re not going to need them here.”

“What do you mean we won’t need them here? What’s going on?”

“Just trust me. I’ll explain everything as soon as you're out.”

Teresa nodded, holding herself back just long enough for a man in leather armor to unlock the gate of the cell. As soon as it was open, she threw herself at Lydia, catching the other woman in a tight hug before looking her over for injuries. “They didn't torture you, did they?”

The woman by the door snorted in disgust as she stepped into the ring of light provided by the torches. She was tall, with black hair shorn short, but with a thin braid going around the crown of her head. Her features were sharp and fierce, made even fiercer by the scar that sliced its way down the left side of her face, just beside her mouth. Her dark eyes sparked with suspicion as she watched them. “We do not torture the cooperative.”

Well, Teresa thought, that was good to know. Sort of. But then, she saw that James was still lying on the floor of his cell, and then that became her priority. “Ly—”

“Here.” Lydia put something in Teresa’s hand, and when she opened it she realized it was a small vial of smelling salts from the medical supplies Elinor always took on missions. Good: it meant they still had their stuff, and – more importantly – had been granted access to said stuff. She snapped the vial and held it under James’ nose, and in no time at all James was conscious again, his head snapping up and away from the vial she’d yanked away from his face as soon as he was awake.

While James recovered, she glanced towards the other cell, watching as Raphael gave Elinor the same treatment, and as soon as she was awake, cradled his wife in his arms, holding her tight and murmuring something in her hair. Lydia took care of Ichiro, the man jerking back to consciousness with much more roughness, almost reaching out to grab Lydia by the throat before he realized who it was, and only then relaxing.

“Wha…th’_hell…_?”

She immediately turned to James, who was slowly getting into a sitting position while holding his head. “Hey there boss.”

“Wha-“ James’ dark eyes squinted at her. “Wha’the _fuck_?”

“If you’re swearing that means you’re okay,” Teresa remarked, smirking wider at James’ exasperated eye-roll. “Listen: we’re in a situation right now that I have a _really_ hard time making sense of, but if you can get on your feet, Ed and I’ll help you stand up and we can get out of this dungeon and sit somewhere with light and air.” She paused, frowning in consternation before turning to Lydia. “We _are_ getting out of this place, right Ly?”

“We are.” Lydia stood, supporting Ichiro, who was mostly conscious but still somewhat dazed, on her shoulder. Fortunately, Lydia was a tall woman, and quite strong to boot, so she had very little trouble handling the somewhat bigger man. She faced down the fierce, scarred woman with the accent. “You said so.”

“I did,” the woman replied with a sharp nod. She turned away from them, heading towards the door. “If you are on your feet, I can guide you to a place where you will be safe.”

“Whozat?” James slurred as Edward and Teresa pulled him to his feet, holding him between them to support his weight – or rather, with Edward supporting most of his weight. Teresa, being short as she was, could only do so much. Still, she tried.

“Dunno,” Teresa replied as they all followed the scarred woman out of the dungeon. She exchanged a glance with Lydia, who nodded. “But we’re going to find out soon enough.”

\-----

“This is _bullshit_! Utter _bullshit_! What are we, the sphere shoved into the breach six hundred feet over London that leaves a hole in the fabric of reality?!”

“… Wow. I had no idea you watched _Doctor Who._ You been holding out on me, bossman? I’m hurt.”

To any other listener, Raphael’s tone might have been considered unnecessarily glib, given the circumstances, but Lydia knew it was just his way of dealing with pressure. When Raphael Andrada was trying to deal with things that he could only barely handle, he turned to two things: swearing (though to be fair, he swore even without any pressure on him), and being flippant even if the situation didn’t warrant it. Or rather, _especially_ if the situation didn’t warrant it.

James’ reaction, at least, was well in keeping with their circumstances. “_Still. Bullshit_.”

Lydia sighed, and resisted the urge to press the heels of her hands into her eyes in an attempt to stave off the headache that was building behind them. It had been manageable earlier, but now was building up to what Raphael would term “oh mother_fucker_” proportions. And all because her friends were freaking out over their current situation in their own unique ways, instead of just accepting the way things stood and _working_ towards a solution that would help them adjust to the New Normal.

Not that she could blame them, really – especially James. While they all knew that there was no way one could control every single variable in any given situation, James had been especially good at rolling with the punches as they came. It was why he was leader of their little group in the first place: when everything went to pieces and shit hit the fan, they could always count on James to keep a level head and see them through to a workable solution.

But that was in _their_ world – and they were _far_ from their world now.

She glanced out the window of the little room where they were granted privacy to talk over their options (more like where they were being held prisoner, albeit it was _much_ better than the dungeons they’d previously been in). The great, swirling, sickly-green tornado in the sky – the Breach – hovered in the distance, occasionally dropping what she now knew were monsters onto the land below, to terrorize the innocent people of Thedas.

The Breach. Thedas.

Lydia was used to being an outsider. She’d grown up on the Hopi Reservation in Arizona, had spent most of her life there before she’d gotten a scholarship to Arizona State University to study computer science. When she’d begun studying it had felt like stepping into a completely different world. Oh, she’d seen what it was _like_, but that was through screens and the Internet. Everything had felt completely surreal for maybe a month or so before she’d gotten used to it.

But this? This was _completely _different.

As Raphael had said earlier: “This is not fucking Kansas anymore Toto. This is _so_ not fucking Kansas.”

“Guys,” she said, drawing everyone’s attention to her. “We’re getting nowhere.”

James glared at her briefly, before he finally sagged, and shook his head. “You’re right,” he said, dropping into the chair he’d been occupying earlier. “Goddammit. We can’t move forward like this.”

Lydia nodded, then continued, in a softer voice: “Listen: I know I took our options away from all of us when I told them that we’d work with the Inquisition. I know that wasn’t my call to make. But it was either that, or leave you guys in that dungeon, and with James, Elie, Ichi and Tessa still unconscious when they took me, I had to make the choices that’d get you out of that hole and somewhere someone could take care of you.”

A rock and a hard place. Lydia thought she’d been in that position often enough to know what it felt like, and she thought she’d always find a way out. In, over, under, around, _through_ if she had to – it didn’t matter, there was _always_ a way out. She was the Magpie: if she couldn’t bring her team, her friends, _her family,_ safely out of a crisis, then what was the point?

But that _was_ the point, wasn’t it? She was the Magpie: put her behind the wheel or a computer console, and she could work miracles. But put her in front of _people _and, well…

It should’ve been James who’d done the talking. James, or Teresa, or if she’d still been around, Serafina: the Eagle or the Raven would’ve been able to talk to these people, find a workable solution to their problem. But James and Teresa had been knocked out, and Serafina was long gone.

So it had fallen to her, and she’d tried her best, she really had, but the talk with the Inquisition’s leadership showed her that she hadn’t really understood what it meant to have absolutely no options left open to her.

She’d done the best she could. And that meant taking Maxwell Trevelyan’s offer: fold into the Inquisition’s ranks, and work with them to find a way to close the Breach. He’d also offered to let them go into the world to make their own way, but that wasn’t a choice; that was a death sentence. Even Maxwell knew it was, if the slight grimace on his face as he’d said it was any indication.

She snapped out of her thoughts when she felt a warm hand on her shoulder. She looked up, and then a little downwards, to meet Teresa’s warm brown eyes.

The shorter woman smiled, and squeezed her gently. “You did what you could, Ly. Don’t beat yourself up over it, okay?”

Lydia felt her breath catch in her throat, and then smiled tremulously. Count on Teresa to see right through the bullshit she was putting herself through, and say something to take it away or make it easier to bear.

She reached up, and put her hand on top of Teresa’s. “Thanks.”

Teresa smiled back, and closed in for a brief hug before letting Lydia go with one last, gentle stroke on her arm. It soothed Lydia, grounded her thoughts. Typical Andrada touchy-feeliness – and gods bless them for it.

Lydia looked back at James, and realized that he’d been watching her, his full lips quirked up in an apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry, Ly,” he said, standing up to come over to her. He took her hand, and squeezed it gently. “You did what you could for us. I couldn’t ask for more, or better, from anyone, especially from my family.”

Lydia smiled up at him, and squeezed his hand in reassurance. “I forgive you. Just don’t forget: you have us. And no matter how crazy this whole situation is, we’re going to get through it together – like we always do.”

A soft laugh escaped James’ mouth, but he nodded, giving her hand one final squeeze before he let go, and turned to face them all. Lydia could see how he stood a little straighter now, his head a little higher.

The Eagle had come to a decision, and whatever it was, Nest would follow.

“Looks like we’re going to be working for this Inquisition, whoever they are,” James stated, his voice clear and even. “Let’s show them they didn’t make a mistake taking us onboard.”

\-----

“Are you certain this is the correct thing to do?”

“I am, actually.”

“They could be—”

“—Spies, yes I know. Or if not spies, then something else equally dangerous – more so, since Solas did say they are from another world, and they have confirmed that. If they do prove to be a danger, then Sister Night—”

“Ahem.”

“I mean, Leliana will ensure that they are dealt with. But I will not refuse anyone who wishes to help the Inquisition, not when we need all the help we can get. Who knows: perhaps their otherworldly nature will prove to be an asset to us.”

“While all of that is true, I would ask, as one of your advisors, and as the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces, that you be _careful. _Or at the very least, do not place such immense trust in such total strangers – at least, not until I or Sister Leliana have vetted them thoroughly.”

“I doubt there is much vetting to be done. Given that they are from another world, there are no documents that can be referenced to tell us anything about them, nor is there anything Leliana’s agents can uncover.”

“My agents and my networks are good, but we cannot find what does not exist in the first place.”

“I’m suggesting no such thing! I’m simply _asking_ that we keep an eye on them and see if they are worthy of the trust the Herald appears to have placed in them.”

“And that is completely valid, and I agree. But…”

“But?”

“But something in my gut tells me that trusting them is the right thing to do. I know, I know, intuition and gut feeling are not a good basis for judging people, there’s no need to give me that look. But the fact remains that they strike me as good people.”

“… Well, let us hope your gut feeling is right. Either way, Sister Leliana, Seeker Cassandra, and myself shall keep a close watch on them in the meantime.”

“I’d have it no other way, Commander Rutherford.”


	3. Coping Mechanisms

Cullen Rutherford was not entirely sure what to make of the latest additions to the Inquisition’s ranks – despite having observed them for one whole month since their arrival in Haven, and despite knowing they were, as far as he, Cassandra, and Leliana could see, not a danger to the Inquisition. On one hand, the Herald, Maxwell Trevelyan, had a point: more willing hands to help their cause was always a good thing. On the other hand, they were just plain _strange._

Take their healer, the lady named Elinor. All his life, Cullen had been accustomed to healers being gentle, even-tempered folks, who could calm any sort of hysterics or tantrums, and who faced tiny cuts and life-threatening injuries with the same equanimity of temperament.

Elinor, on the other hand, took a vastly different approach.

“If you break anything while fooling around in the training yard,” Cullen overheard her threatening her husband, the man named Raphael, “I will set it, and _then_ break your nose.”

“Ouch,” Raphael muttered, but he was grinning as he wrapped his arms around his wife’s waist. “I’ve broken it enough times already, don’t you think?”

Elinor narrowed her eyes at him, and this time Raphael laughed out loud before leaning forward a little to plant a loud kiss on her mouth.

“We’ll take care, I promise,” Raphael said, still grinning at his wife but with the cheekiness in his dark eyes tempered by the kind of softness that Cullen had last seen so very long ago, on his parents’ faces when they looked at each other across the supper table at the end of the day.

“You will, will you?” Elinor stared up at her husband, then stepped away and around him. “Well, you’ll forgive me if I _don’t_ take your word for it. I’ll get some supplies together and watch.”

Raphael just laughed as he watched his wife walk back into the cabin they were given (separate from the other cabin the rest of their team shared, Cullen noted – likely out of deference to their married state). Then, he must have noticed Cullen watching, because he sobered slightly, and nodded.

“Good morning, Commander Rutherford,” he greeted.

“Good morning to you as well, Ser Raphael.” Cullen glanced at the door through which Elinor had gone, then added, in a quieter voice, “Is Lady Elinor well?”

Raphael snickered, but nodded. “If Elie isn’t threatening me with pain and dismemberment for attempting something very stupid, then that isn’t my wife: that’s a pod person.” Cullen shot him a confused look, and Raphael amended: “She’d be an impostor if she acted any other way.”

“Ah.” Cullen contemplated whether it was safe to ask the question on the tip of his tongue, and in the end, decided it would do no harm. “Is she always like that, then?”

“S’why I fell in love with her. Perfect ‘no’ on her perfect mouth for everything she thinks is perfectly stupid.” Raphael uttered an unmistakably captivated sigh, which matched the equally captivated expression on his face. “And a mean right hook on top of all that. Like, _damn_. I knew I was in love when she punched me for trying to take down five thugs all by my lonesome and came back to her with cracked ribs and my left tibia broken in two places.”

Cullen stared. “Does she punch all her patients?”

“Nah. It was just me, and it was just the once, and to be fair, I kinda needled her into it. The others know better than to poke her. Me, I find it fun.” Raphael paused, and then leered. “Speaking of poking her, I am _so fucking glad_ we got a cabin all to ourselves. Privacy is _good_ for married life.”

Cullen felt his jaw fall slack at the casual way Raphael talked about his privileges as a married man, but fortunately was spared from having to say anything in response when a roll of bandages hit the other man on the side of the head.

“Not another word about our married lives, Rafe,” Elinor scolded, her gray eyes flashing in annoyance as she snatched the roll from her husband’s sheepishly outstretched hand. “Honestly, do you not know the meaning of ‘overshare’?”

She turned to Cullen, and gave him a small, apologetic smile. “Good morning to you, Commander Rutherford. Please forgive my impertinent boor of a husband. I love him very much, but the filter between his mouth and his brain is broken and he says whatever comes to mind.”

“It was no trouble, Lady Elinor,” Cullen replied automatically, bowing his head slightly at the pale-haired healer.

Elinor nodded, but then her eyes narrowed slightly at him – not in the same way they had narrowed at her husband, but in the way of a healer that had just noticed something about a patient. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, Commander, but… Are you well?”

Cullen blinked. “Beg pardon?”

“Are you all right?” She moved a little closer to him, her head tilted to one side. “You look a little pale, and you’re sweating quite hard despite it being so cold.”

Maker’s breath, Cullen thought in a panic, how had she noticed? He thought he’d gotten quite adept at hiding the symptoms of the lyrium withdrawal – especially since his headaches weren’t _that_ bad today, nor had the nightmares been that terrible. “I— I am quite well, Lady Elinor, I assure you. I just— I have a lot on my mind.”

Elinor did not seem to acknowledge his statement, continuing to stare at him for a few seconds, but at length she nodded, and backed off, her expression softening slightly even though her gaze remained sharp. “Of course. I’m sorry for being nosy.” She turned to Raphael, and nudged him to the side. “Come on then love. Won’t do for you to be late or James will make you run extra laps around the lake.”

Raphael groaned, but obeyed his wife as he got moving. “You can just tell him not to, if you said it was for medical reasons.”

“Love, you are _not_ using me to get out of training. While I don’t approve of you lot whaling on each other with lethal weapons, I can get behind more cardiovascular exercise to help maintain your stamina and fitness.”

“My _stamina and fitness_, huh? You sure that’s for my benefit or for yo- _Ow_!”

Cullen couldn’t help the involuntary wince he gave when he saw the way Elinor’s elbow connected with Raphael’s side, but the sight of them together also made him smile. They _were_ strange, that was true, and he could never fathom the idea of falling in love with a woman for the way she punched, but with those two… Well, it worked, and it worked well. And in some strange way, it was comforting to know that even in other worlds, people still fell in love and got married, just as they did in Thedas.

That kind of certainty was becoming increasingly difficult to find.

“I know they’re kind of weird, but they really love each other.”

Cullen snapped out of his observation of Raphael and Elinor to focus on this new speaker: the woman named Lydia Lacapa. He hadn’t spoken to her in a while, not since those confusing, head-spinning days when she and her companions dropped out of a rift right on Haven’s front steps, but he had a vague notion that Leliana had co-opted her for one reason or another.

“Lady Lydia,” he greeted, nodding his head at her, which she returned with one of her own. “It is not my place to say what is or is not strange, when it comes to a couple in love.”

Lydia smiled: a flash of brilliant white teeth in the smooth bronze of her elegantly chiseled face, her thick black hair trailing down her left shoulder in a plait that ended just above her waist. “Don’t worry; they know what they’ve got is a bit strange. But the bond’s strong, and that’s all that really matters.”

“Indeed.” He straightened as he regarded her. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Oh yeah, that’s right. Leliana wants you to join us for a moment? There’s something we’d like to discuss with you, about the new communication protocols we’re going to start using for the Inquisition. Since you’re the Commander of the military and will be using these protocols too when sending letters and messages, she said you needed to be brought up to speed on them.”

Ah. Leliana had told him this would be happening at some point. He nodded in acquiescence, and followed Lydia to Leliana’s tent in the chantry’s forecourt, where the two women proceeded to explain in great detail the new ciphers that Lydia wished the Inquisition to use in place of the standard Chantry ciphers they had been using up until then.

“No offense meant to your scholars,” Lydia said, “but with enough persistence, anyone could brute-force the ciphers you’re using right now. Fortunately, the ciphers I’m proposing to replace them with are far more durable.”

“But more durable means that the implementation will be more complex,” Leliana interjected. “This can be a problem for scouts in the field, or for the Commander here when he needs to issue orders.”

“We won’t need ciphers at all, on the battlefield,” Cullen stated. “In the middle of a battle I want speed and communicability over long distances, not secrecy and obscurity. I want to be able to tell my soldiers exactly what I need them to do, and they need to understand and execute those orders immediately and as perfectly as possible.”

Lydia smiled, and shook her head. “I think you’ll find that encrypting even your field orders is going to go a long way towards making sure the enemy doesn’t figure out what you’re doing. But I hear you: a complicated cipher isn’t practical in the heat of battle. We’ll get there, Commander, and when we do, I’m going to need your help to make a cipher that works for you and for your soldiers. I’d like to get the complicated ciphers out of the way first, and then we can work on the less complicated ones.”

This launched them into a discussion of the cipher they would use for correspondence between the Herald and his advisors, since Maxwell refused to sit idly in Haven while allowing his allies to do all the work for him. On one hand, Cullen knew this was a good thing, since the Herald taking an active part in the efforts of the nascent Inquisition would add to the prestige of the organization, to say nothing of the way his actions could alter opinions towards them. On the other hand, it also meant that he was in constant danger, but there was very little Cullen could do about that. Maxwell knew how to wield a sword, and he would not be going out alone. Cullen had to hope that that would be enough to keep him safe.

“Huh. No wonder we didn’t see you guys at lunch.”

Cullen turned to face the entrance of the tent, and found himself looking at the woman named Teresa: small and bright-eyed, with a dimpled smile that could turn the gloomiest day into a joyous spring.

Especially when it was directed at him, as it was now.

Cullen searched his memory for when, precisely, he had first seen that smile. It certainly could not have been when he first met Teresa, since that had been when she and her companions were first brought out of the dungeons, and a few of them were still recovering from whatever had rendered them unconscious in the first place. At the time, she had been grim, but efficient, her mouth set in a straight line and her eyes flinty-hard. It was clear her mind was on other, less happy things, but Cullen could hardly blame her for that, given the circumstances.

It had to have been in the weeks after, then, as she and her cohorts settled into their new place in the Inquisition, and as Cullen and Cassandra relaxed their initially-harsh stance against them. He recalled one afternoon, when he had been telling the Herald about how he had come to join the Inquisition, and she and James had walked by, observing the recruits as they trained. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but as he glanced briefly away from the Herald, she just so happened to turn her head away from James, and their gazes met.

For a brief moment, they stared at each other, and then, like the sun coming out from behind the clouds, she smiled at him: sweet and a little shy, eyes twinkling with good cheer, a dimple in each cheek, one hand lifted in a little gesture of greeting.

The sight of that smile punched Cullen in the gut. It was a smile made for better men than him, for better people than him, and she’d given it to him so freely, as if he deserved it. If she knew who he really was, if she knew what he’d done, she wouldn’t smile at him like that, for such beauty and goodness were not meant for those as dark and broken as himself.

And yet, Maker forgive him, he was a weak, greedy man, and since that moment he wanted that smile upon him as often as he could get it. He imagined that, so long as her smile continued to exist, the world was not as terrible or as bleak as it was.

He snapped back to the present when Teresa stepped into Leliana’s tent, approaching Lydia, who held one hand out to take the basket from her.

“Sorry we forgot,” Lydia said sheepishly as she put the basket down on the table, making sure not to cover any of the documents they had been working on. “We…kind of got caught up in our work.”

“Yeah, I figured. And Elie figured too, so she had me bring these over.” Teresa eyed them all. “I know I don’t need to tell you, Ly, but Sister Nightingale, Commander: you’d best eat. If Elie hears you’re not taking care of yourselves, she’s going to find you and _tell_ you herself. And believe me, you _won’t_ like it.”

Leliana uttered a charming little laugh, and reached for the basket. “I suppose you are right. And it is good to hear that Lady Elinor has found her place amongst the Inquisition’s healers. We shall need all the help we can get on that front.” She glanced at Teresa, then asked: “And how have you been settling in?”

Teresa shrugged. “Fine, for the most part. The cold here is _unholy,_ but I always complain about the cold, so there’s nothing new about that.”

Cullen frowned. “If you need warmer clothing, you should ask the quartermaster for them. We cannot have anyone falling ill because of the cold.”

Teresa flashed him that bright smile again, and shook her head. “Thanks for the concern, Commander, but I’ll deal. There’re others who need the resources more than I do.” She blinked, and then snapped her fingers. “Right, now that I have you here, I wanted to ask: would it be all right if Ichiro and I set up some plum blossom poles on the training ground?”

“Plum blossom poles?”

“Round poles of varying heights and widths. We use them for balance training.” She nodded at Leliana. “As I understand it, Ichi and I are to be integrated with the other assassins and rogues under Sister Nightingale’s command. Ichi’s one of the best stealth fighters we know, but it’s been years since I had to be on the field myself. I’ll need to get my skills back up to snuff if I’m to be useful.”

Cullen frowned as he tried to imagine how such poles would be used for training. “I do not mind,” he said slowly, “but I would like to see how you use them.”

“As would I,” Leliana chimed.

Teresa nodded. “No problem. We’ll get them set up today and start using them tomorrow. You can come by in the morning and check it out, that’s when we’ll be using them.”

Leliana nodded. “We would appreciate that, thank you.”

“All right. Anyway, I’m gonna go back to Ichi and start setting things up.” She turned around, and started heading out of the tent. Just before she exited, however, she turned back around, and glanced at Cullen. “And Commander?”

“Yes?”

“Please make sure you eat.” She pointed to the basket, from which Leliana and Lydia had taken their own meals. “Okay?”

“I— Yes, of course. Thank you for the concern.”

“No problem.” Then with one last, be-dimpled smile, she left, likely to seek out Ichiro and execute whatever plans they intended to implement.

Lydia sighed and shook her head. “That girl is going to burn out if she keeps on doing that.”

“What do you mean?” Cullen asked, reaching into the basket Teresa had brought for what turned out to be a sandwich – the same kind of meal that Leliana and Lydia were eating.

“Tessa has a really bad tendency to push herself to the back burner when she’s worried,” Lydia replied. “I’ve seen the others take the time to think about what’s happened to us – even James, and he’s not usually one for introspection. But Tessa’s just…picked up and kept moving. She’s not giving herself time to think, to really understand what’s happened to us. She’s in crisis mode, even when we’re not in a crisis.” She paused, and then snorted. “All right, that’s not true, but now that we’re settled in with the Inquisition, there’s no need for her to keep going full speed ahead the way she has.”

“Perhaps that is how she is dealing with your…altered circumstances,” Leliana said gently. “I know of several people who handle crises that way.” The look she shot Cullen as she said those words made it clear that _he_ was amongst those people. “I also include myself in that statement.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not the healthiest coping mechanism in the world,” Lydia muttered. “She needs to slow down and _think._ She’s not going to be useful to anyone if she burns herself out.”

“I can make sure she slows down,” Cullen offered. “I see her most frequently on the training grounds with Ser Ichiro. If he isn’t able to convince her, I can try to help him.”

Lydia smiled, relieved. “That’d be a good idea, Commander. Thank you. And if she doesn’t listen, do what Ichi does: spar with her, then get her in a lock and sit on her until she listens to you. Don’t worry about hurting her; girl’s far from fragile.”

Cullen blinked at the suggestion, and then focused on his food, hoping the action would mask the embarrassed flush that crept up his neck at the idea of sitting on Teresa. It seemed like such a ridiculous notion: as if the woman were a child in need of punishment.

Eventually, thankfully, talk returned to the ciphers, and Cullen was able to finish his meal and focus on something else that was not the woman with the springtime smile who lingered now on the edges of his thoughts.

\-----

Keep moving. Keep going. Never stop. If Teresa stopped, she’d have time to think, and she didn’t _want_ to think, didn’t want to consider what had just happened to her, to her family.

Except she _had_ to stop at night. She had no choice on the matter; there just wasn’t anything to do in Haven after a certain point, and people tended to find their own beds and shoo her to hers if she still happened to be up. And besides, it was _cold_.

So instead of sleeping, she spent most of her time in her bedroll staring at the overhead beams of the cabin she shared with the team, her brain going so fast she could feel it buzzing, unable to relax. She dozed, from time to time, but she never really managed to fall into a proper, deep sleep.

And she knew it was bad. She knew it was doing a nasty number on her health, and if she didn’t watch it Elinor would come and find her and dose her with sleeping pills. But she couldn’t help it. There was too much going on in her head, too many worries whirling around and chasing each other like restless cats.

Sighing, she sat up, looking around the dimly lit cabin at the others. They were all fast asleep: James in one corner, snoring like a chainsaw; Edward in another, lying on his back and with the blankets pulled up over his head so he looked, rather disturbingly, like a corpse; Lydia not too far away from the little length of wall Teresa called her own, wrapped up in a blanket burrito with her hair spilling out from the top. Even Ichiro, who’d maintained much the same sleeping habits she had when they first arrived in this world called Thedas, was sleeping as he usually did back home: on his stomach, arms wrapped around his pillow, his breathing deep and even and soundless.

She envied them, she really did. They hadn’t adjusted to their new reality all at once, but they’d managed it.

How did they do it? How could they just _accept_ that this was how things were now, that this was how their life was going to be from now on? Didn’t they think about going back? Didn’t they _want_ to know if they could go back? Surely whatever had brought them here to this place – whether it was the Breach, or something else they didn’t know about yet – could send them back, once it was solved.

But what if there was nothing, at the end of all this? What if they really _were_ stuck here? What if they had no choice but to stay here and make a go at living in this world where magic was real, and there was no technology, and they were still practicing the humoral theory in medicine, for crying out loud, and—

Growling in frustration, she got to her feet, stepping over Lydia and Ichiro to get to the door. She wrapped herself in the thick cloak that had been given to her against the cold, making sure it was tied securely around her neck before she opened the door, and slid out into the biting cold.

Teresa hissed as a cold wind greeted her, scraping against her cheeks like a million tiny needles. She stayed there for a while, stomping and quietly grumbling as she adjusted the cloak to make sure there weren’t any stray drafts trying to sneak in under the (inadequate, as far as she was concerned) warmth of the garment. She looked back behind her at the door. Maybe she could go back inside and grab her blanket, wrap that around herself underneath the cloak. No: if she did that she’d wake Ichiro up, and he’d want to know why she was still awake.

Sighing, she turned away, and walked away from the cabin, taking the looping path that led around the grounds of Haven. Thanks to the Breach’s eldritch glow it was easy to follow the walls of the small town that, according to Ambassador Montilyet, was a major stopover for pilgrims visiting the Temple of Sacred Ashes – an important site to the Andrastian faith, which was administered and spread by the Chantry, the major religious power of Thedas. That temple, incidentally, was where something called a Conclave was being held, to bring resolution to what was called the Mage-Templar War, but then the Breach exploded into life, killing everyone present at the peace talks.

All except for Maxwell Trevelyan: the sole survivor whom everyone (well, _almost_ everyone) called the Herald of Andraste, who bore a mark on his palm that could close rifts – and, it was hoped, the Breach as well, once he’d gained enough strength to handle it.

But that was still some ways away. Maxwell needed support for his endeavor, but the Inquisition was still too young, too new to the political landscape. It had no support at all, save what it could win for itself – and that was going to be an uphill battle.

History had always been one of Teresa’s favorite subjects, which overlapped very well with her original training as a literary scholar. She loved stories, and history was just another kind of story. She enjoyed reading about events from long ago, seeing how they pieced together the story of humanity as a whole, and how those events shaped the present – both for good and for ill. She especially enjoyed drawing parallels between events, eventually concluding that one of her favorite childhood authors, James Gurney, had been right when he’d written in _Dinotopia_: “Time moves on, but history repeats itself.”

What she hadn’t expected was to find parallels in Thedas: a world that was completely different from the one she knew. She’d taken to reading the history books in the chantry’s library when she had free time on her hands during the day, and she’d been astounded by the broad similarities. Empires rose and fell; wars were fought and won or lost or brought to inconclusive ends. And people were still people – for better and for worse. The details, though, she took with a grain of salt; she knew how even the most rigorous author or scholar could not help but weave their own prejudices into the text. She wondered if there were any texts written by the elves that she could look at; her professors had always taught her the value of multiple perspectives and listening to marginalized voices, and—

Movement out of the corner of her eye snapped her out of her thoughts, and Teresa looked up towards its source. She caught a glimpse of someone in pale clothing stepping around a corner, heading in the direction of the well that stood to one side of the chantry. Curious, she decided to follow, her footsteps automatically going quiet the way they did on a mission.

It was a man, as it turned out: tall and broad-shouldered, with a head of blond hair in unruly curls, dressed in light trousers and a tunic. She couldn’t tell who it was, because his back was turned to her, but she could tell something wasn’t quite right because he was leaning over the lip of the well with all the look of a man who bore the weight of the world on his shoulders. And when he started to move to pull the bucket up from the well, she could tell that he was in pain.

Teresa stepped forward, forgetting that she hadn’t done or said anything to indicate she was there. “You all right?”

“Maker’s breath!” The man whirled, moving with a speed his bulk belied, and Teresa realized who it was.

“Sorry Commander!” Teresa held her hands up to show she was unarmed, stepping back to give the man some breathing room – well, more room in general, since there were several feet between them still. “Didn’t know it was you.”

The Commander squinted at her for a moment, and then his eyes widened in recognition. “Lady Teresa! I— Forgive me. I did not realize you were there.”

“I didn’t make myself known, so it’s all right.” She gave him an apologetic smile. “It’s the training. I’m so used to walking silently, I forget to stop doing it when I’m not on a mission. James has threatened to put a bell on me more times than I can count.”

The Commander gave her a confused look. “A bell? On you?”

“Y’know, like on a pet cat? So I can’t sneak up on him by accident.”

The Commander blinked, considering the image, and then he huffed a small laugh. “That…would be a solution, I suppose.”

Teresa shrugged, knowing that putting a bell on her wouldn’t _really_ prevent her from learning how to move in such a way that it kept the thing mostly quiet, but that wasn't really her concern at the moment. She stepped closer, making sure to shuffle her feet so that the Commander knew she was coming closer. “Are you okay?”

“What?” the Commander had looked away from her, but when she asked her question he turned back to look at her again. “Did you say something?”

Oh, now she _knew_ something was wrong. Straightening her spine, she came towards him. “I asked if you were okay, and I think it’s pretty clear you’re not.” She tilted her head at him. “Are you hurting? Sick?” She reached up for his forehead, thinking to check for a fever—

The Commander flinched away from her, and Teresa grimaced at that, remembering herself. “Sorry. Andrada touchy-feeliness. I forget not everyone’s used to it.” She drew away a few steps, looking up at him, still concerned. “But seriously: are you okay? You look like you’re hurting.”

“I’m all right,” the Commander replied, far too quickly, in Teresa’s opinion, to be true. “I— I just came out for some water.”

“I’ll get it for you then.”

“That won’t be necessary—”

“I know it’s not, but I’m offering.” She glanced around the space they were in, and spotted a bench not too far away. “Sit down, Commander. It’s obvious you’re not feeling well, and I’d feel better if you were sitting down and not standing over the well, where you could fall over. Wouldn’t be a good look on the Commander of the Inquisition, would it? Falling into the well in the middle of the night while looking to get a drink of water.”

The Commander opened his mouth, likely to protest, but then he shut it, and sighed. “You have a very good point.”

“I have my moments.” She waited for him to be seated, and once he was, she turned to the well. There was a winch on the side, so she reached for it, turning it until the bucket was again visible over the lip. Holding the winch in place, she reached out with her other hand and snatched the rope, bringing the bucket in closer so that she could stand it on the edge of the well.

That done, she looked into the bucket, glad to note that the water in it was clear, not murky as it could sometimes be. She picked up one of the many clay cups that were lined up on a shelf nearby expressly for the use of people coming to the well to drink (a holdover from when Haven was a pilgrimage stopover, she figured), and after making sure that was clean too, she dipped it into the water, hissing quietly at how cold it was, then turned around to go to the Commander.

He’d seated himself on the bench Teresa had seen earlier, but he was bent forward, his elbows braced on his knees, his hands on his face. She could see his thumbs rubbing slow circles at his temples, and she figured he must have a monstrous headache.

“Here,” she said, stopping in front of him and holding out the cup. It took a few seconds, but at length the Commander lifted his head, and reached a trembling hand for the cup. She noticed that, so she didn’t let go even when the Commander took the cup. He gave her a look, and she returned it with a tilt of her head and one raised eyebrow, challenging him to defy her when she could so easily feel his fingers shaking against hers. In the end, he gave in, and pulled the cup towards him, her hand trapped underneath his against the cold clay.

“Drink slowly,” she murmured as he tipped the cup towards his mouth. “The water’s cold, and if you drink too fast you’ll make your headache worse.”

He did as she asked, tipping the cup slowly as he drank its contents down. She waited patiently, ignoring the draft that had worked its way through her cloak until the Commander pushed the cup away from his mouth, breathing a sigh of relief. His gaze flicked up to meet hers.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “You are too kind.”

She grinned, and shook her head. “There’s no such thing as ‘too kind’. And you’re welcome.” She drew away from him then, pulling her hand with the cup still in it out of his grasp, and ignored the little frisson of warmth that traveled through her at the drag of his fingers against hers, like he was reluctant to let her go. But that was just her imagination, of course. The Commander was a very handsome man, so it wasn’t surprising she found him attractive. And he was nice too: tough but fair, and always willing to lend a hand or offer advice when it was asked of him.

But men like him never went for girls like her. They never looked in her direction, never wanted to be with her. She was always too much of something: too smart, too strong-willed, too idealistic – the list went on. And besides, the last time she’d been in a relationship she couldn’t even call it that, because—

She shoved the memories aside as far and as fast as she could. That was years ago, she reminded herself as she put the cup back on the shelf and went back to the Commander, before her sister had even disappeared. But the wound went deep, and wounds like that were not exactly easy to recover from. All she could do was not think about it too much, and move on.

She sat down beside the Commander, eyeing him with concern. He wasn’t massaging his head anymore, but it was clear he was still in pain: the furrow on his brow, the way his eyebrows were drawn together, the way he stared into the middle distance as if he could set it on fire with sheer force of will were all clear signs that he still wasn’t feeling well.

“Do you want me to get you something for the pain?” she asked softly, drawing his attention to her again. His eyes were dark in the dim light, but she knew they were actually bright, golden amber: one of the rarest eye colors, right up there with green eyes.

She briefly wished _she_ had green eyes, or blue eyes, or maybe something like Elinor’s gray eyes: just, something prettier than her plain dark brown ones.

“Thank you, but no,” the Commander replied softly, responding to her question. “The pain is not as bad as it was earlier, now that I have drunk something.” He paused, then frowned – well, frowned more than he was already. “What are you doing up so late?”

Teresa shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Is it the cold that’s keeping you up? If it really bothers you—”

“It’s not the cold,” Teresa interrupted. “We’ve got two braziers in the cabin, and we’ve got blankets. Plus with everyone in there sleeping together, we’re warm enough.”

“Then what is wrong?” When she didn’t reply, the Commander turned more fully to her, and said: “Lady Teresa, if there is anything at all that is troubling you, you must say something about it. I know you and your companions have done your best to adjust to your new circumstances, but it would surprise no one if you had a hard time settling in. If there is anything I or my colleagues can do to make that transition easier, you should know we would be glad to offer our assistance.”

Teresa sighed, and closed her eyes. “Thanks for the offer, Commander, and yeah, I know you, Sister Nightingale, and Ambassador Montilyet would do – _are_ doing – all you can to help us. The Herald’s done the same. But this— This isn’t something anyone can actually help with.”

Which was true enough. There was no way any of them could tell the future, after all. And Maxwell still wasn’t strong enough to even close the Breach, let alone figure a way out for them to go back to their world.

“Then tell me about it.”

Teresa glanced at the Commander, blinking in surprise. “What?”

The man shrugged. “Perhaps if you talked about it, it might ease the burden somewhat. I am willing to listen, if you do not mind.”

She frowned. “Don’t you have a headache?”

“I do, but it’s bearable at the moment.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I don’t, but I’m offering.”

Teresa blinked when the Commander threw her own words back at her, but then she huffed out a laugh. “Okay, fine.”

She sighed then, quietly, and rubbed a hand over her face. “I just— It’s this whole situation. Being in this new world. I mean, we had _stories_ about traveling to other realities, back where we’re from, and there’re theories that our scholars have posited that suggest there _are_ other realities, but none of us ever imagined we’d find our way into one. Who sent us here? How’d they do it? And for that matter, _why_? I know we made lots of enemies back home because of what we do, but there’s nothing in our world that allows people to toss other people into entirely new worlds. So it’s gotta be someone from here, but who the hell was it?

“And the why of this whole thing bugs me too. Because it hasn’t escaped me that we arrived here just when you people are facing an apocalyptic scenario, so I have to wonder: did whoever sent us here expect us to help? I mean, sure, we _would_, of course, but why _us_? Is it the skillset? Okay, I’ll concede that we’ve got the skills to help you out, but most of what we know, most of what we _do_, relies on technology and knowledge of _our world_, not _yours_. There’re some skills that translate, yes, but for the most part, we’re in the dark about how Thedas operates.

“_That’s_ what bugs me about this whole thing. There’s so much I need to learn, so much information I need to get into my head, because if I _don’t_, then we’re in trouble. Back home, it was reasonably easy to predict what would happen in any given situation. I mean, yeah, sure, you can’t predict _everything_, but at least I knew how my world worked. I could plan, think of contingencies, backups, prepare for failure. There were ways and means of making sure that if something fell apart, it wasn’t a total loss.

“But here, in Thedas? I got nothing. Nada. Zero. Bupkis. And I _hate it._ I’m living day-by-day, hour-by-hour, and I _hate it_. Can’t plan for the next week, the next month, can’t guess at what’s coming around the corner— And it’s a _dangerous_ world, with magic and demons and darkspawn and dragons apparently? I just learned that _today_, that giant scaly fire-breathing lizards with wings are a _legitimate threat_ to me and mine.

“And I am not prepared for any of that. _None of us_ is prepared for any of that. And if something happens - if some disaster comes and strikes us out of the blue-- I won’t be able to help protect them.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and the world went a little blurry. “I won’t— I won’t be able to give them the answers they need, help them plot out a plan to get us out of trouble, to make sure we survive. I have no contingencies here, no failsafes, no backups. And that scares the living _daylights_ out of me, because if something happens and I _lose them,_ I—I—”

Teresa blew out a breath, and buried her face in her hands, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes in an attempt to keep the tears at bay. She didn’t want the Commander to see her crying: not him, not anyone.

She jerked her head up when she felt a touch on her shoulder. She turned to look, and met the Commander’s eyes, which were gazing back at her with concern – and sympathy.

“I imagined that being in a world that is not your own would be difficult,” he murmured, “but I did not think the lack of knowledge would have such impact. And yet, after what you’ve just said, I realize I am wrong. Of course it would: you cannot act as easily as you would in your own world, where you are familiar with most conventions and customs, and know who and what to turn to when you are in trouble. You have no such security here.

“I’m sorry that this is the case, Lady Teresa. But let me assure you now: I – _we_ – will do all we can to make sure that you and your friends are not left vulnerable. And if that means supplying you with information, then you shall have it. I know you have accessed the chantry’s library, but if there is anything at all you wish to learn about, come and find me, and I shall see to it you have what you need.” He gave her a lopsided smile, the scar cutting across his lips twitching a little. “Or, if it is within my capacity to explain, I shall give you the answer myself.”

Teresa stared at him. Sister Nightingale and Ambassador Montilyet had promised her more or less the same thing, but to hear _the Commander_ tell her that… It was the last offer she expected, from the last person she expected it to come from.

“You don’t have to,” she said, glancing away, unable to bear the weight of his sincerity. “I mean— Sister Nightingale and Ambassador Montilyet already said they’d help us with whatever information we need to get settled in. I’m just— It’s just whining, really.”

“I did not hear a woman whining just now,” the Commander said. “I heard a woman who is afraid she will be unable to protect those she cares for, when she is needed most. And that is valid. All of it is.”

The response wasn’t what Teresa expected. She turned back to look at the Commander, meeting his gaze. He looked back at her, his hand still on her shoulder, and there was something about the openness of his expression, how he seemed to see her concerns, but not dismiss them, that made something uncoil in her chest: a tightness that had been there from the moment she found out there was no way they could go back to their world.

“Thank you,” she murmured at last, feeling her shoulders sag as the weight of her worries fell away a little. “I didn’t want anyone to see how scared I was. It seems stupid to be.”

“There is nothing stupid about what you just told me, nor is there anything stupid about being afraid,” the Commander assured. “And know that I will do what I can to see you need not fear this way anymore.”

Teresa couldn’t help the giggle that escaped her. “You’ve said that in a couple different variations now.”

The Commander smiled then, and _wow_, it was a good look on him. “It’s the truth, Lady Teresa.”

Teresa snorted. “I’m not a lady, Commander. There’s no need to call me that.”

His smile broadened. “Teresa, then. And…feel free to call me Cullen.”

“All right.” Teresa knew she wouldn’t be able to call him that during the regular schedule they ran in Haven, that she’d wind up calling him by his title more often than not, but…it was nice to know she had first-name privileges.

She straightened, and looked out onto Haven. The moons (two of them: another thing she had to get used to) had set, and the sky was so filled by the Breach’s eerie light she couldn’t see the stars. “Maybe we should head back to bed.”

“… Yes. I suppose we should.” The Comman-- _Cullen_ stood slowly, and Teresa frowned.

“Are you _sure_ you’re all right?” she asked.

He sighed. “Yes, Teresa, I am well.”

“Have you been to the healers? It sounds like you have a chronic illness of some kind.”

“I am aware. And do not worry: the healers supply me with the potions and elixirs I need for my…condition.”

“So what were you doing out there then?”

“I was thirsty. And I had run out of the potion that I take for the headaches. The cold helps ease it somewhat.”

Teresa nodded slowly, believing him to an extent, but certain he was leaving something out – the fever, most likely. But if he didn’t want to tell her about that, it was fine. She’d pried enough as it was. The most she could do was ease what he _did_ tell her about, and since he seemed determined not to tell her any more, she decided that she’d done what she could.

“Well,” she said as she stood up, shivering as she pulled the cloak tighter around her. “I’m going to go back to bed and see if I can grab a few hours of sleep before Ichi pulls me out of my bed for training.” She looked over her shoulder at Cullen. “Maybe you should do the same.”

Cullen tilted his head at her, one eyebrow going up as he smirked (and Teresa forced herself to ignore the way her stomach fluttered at the look). “Are you ordering me to my bed, Lady Teresa?”

“Me? Order the Commander of the Inquisition? I’d _never_! It’s a suggestion – a _strong_ one.”

Cullen chuckled. “Consider that suggestion taken – with the injunction that you do the same.”

“I was on my way, wasn’t I?” She nodded at him then, smiling. “Good night, Commander.”

“Cullen,” he reminded her.

Teresa snorted, and amended, still smiling: “Good night, Cullen.”

“Thank you. And good night to you, La— Teresa.”

Teresa responded to that with one bob of her head, and then she turned, making her way back to the cabin where the rest of the team was sleeping – and all along the way, she fought down the high-pitched, squealing voice in her head that told her she should be thrilled by the attention Cullen had given her.

What was the point, she asked herself, as she had every time that voice reared up in the back of her head. It wasn’t as if he liked her that way. He was just being nice. That’s all men like him were like with her: nice.

Still, she mused as she slipped through the door, draped her cloak on its hook, and then tiptoed back to her bedroll, it couldn’t hurt to daydream a bit sometimes. As long as he never found out about what was going on in her head when it came to him, it’d be all right.


	4. Fry, Freeze, Zap

The morning air was clear and bitingly crisp, similar to the winter mornings that had sometimes greeted Ichiro when he was a child. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine himself as he had been when he was ten years old, eagerly sliding open the windows of his bedroom to look down on the family mansion’s snow-covered garden, his eyes taking in the dazzling spectacle of bright sunlight on glittering frost.

He had been so optimistic then. So filled with joy and eagerness for the life that lay ahead of him.

But then everything changed, and when he thought of those winters he could only think of them through the bitterness that veiled all his memories of his family.

He shook himself then, clearing away the memories as he walked away from the cabin. He was not home now. He had not visited the family mansion deep in the mountains of Shikoku since he had left it, not once looking behind him. Now, he was even further away from it all. There was no point thinking of the past. What mattered was the now, and the future he would have here in Thedas with his friends.

A small smile curved his lips. He was not particularly religious (nor were most Japanese, for that matter), but he was not above giving thanks to the gods for letting him have at least his found family with him here. They were all he needed. Everything else would come eventually.

_Kishi kaisei_. “Wake from death and return to life.” In a way, what had happened to him and his friends when they arrived here in Thedas was a literal instance of the old proverb. For all intents and purposes, they were dead in their world, but they were alive here. And while it had taken him a while to grasp that reality, to come to terms with it, he was now determined to make the most of this new life.

And that included getting himself and Teresa shot by a mage.

The first time Ichiro had seen a mage perform magic, he had been unable to cover up his reaction to the sight. To be sure, he was accustomed to illusionists and stage magicians, to say nothing of the special effects in visual entertainment and VR gaming (a recent guilty pleasure of his), but this was entirely new.

It also reminded him that it was a rather large vulnerability for himself and his friends. He was used to being attacked by people shooting guns at him, as well as people using throwing knives, throwing stars, crossbow bolts, arrows, and all manner of proper and makeshift handheld weaponry, to say nothing of unarmed martial artists, but mages hurling magic at him was far beyond his usual experience.

He had tried it on himself first, of course. He had asked Commander Rutherford if he knew of any mages who were experts in combat magic, and though the Commander had hesitated briefly before inquiring into why he wanted to speak to such a person, he was eventually directed to Solas, the elven apostate (which Ichiro took to mean “non-believer,” though some spoke the word with more venomous undertones that suggested something deeper) who was studying the Breach and the mark on the Herald’s hand. And though Solas had been skeptical at first, he soon proved amenable to Ichiro’s request to blast him with all the offensive spells he knew.

Of course, Ichiro had gotten an earful from Elinor, after she learned about the experiment, and had insisted she be there during his second session with Solas. The elf had been amused to see Elinor there, but fortunately he did not needle her about her concern. Instead, he politely acknowledged that it was good for her to be there, and apologized for acquiescing to Ichiro’s request without informing her. He then proceeded to explain the effects of combat magic to Elinor, assuring her that he was in perfect control of his abilities and that he was careful not to do anything that would seriously hurt Ichiro while they were training. While Elinor had not been entirely happy about Ichiro getting frozen, singed, and electrocuted, she seemed somewhat mollified by Solas’ explanation.

In the end, she had reluctantly given Ichiro permission to keep on training, and to extend that training to Teresa.

Which was what Ichiro intended to do that day: start training Teresa on how to deal with magic. He knew his own training was far from complete, but he needed Teresa to at least be familiar with how combat magic worked, so that together, they could begin to learn how to defend themselves – and their friends – from magical assault.

He slipped into the Singing Maiden, Haven’s tavern, intending to get some breakfast. Fortunately, it was still early enough in the day that it was relatively vacant, and he had no trouble finding Solas, who was sitting quietly in a far corner of the tavern. Ichiro often found him there at this time, since they apparently shared the same preference for a quiet meal to start the day. It was why the elf did not mind sharing a table with him, especially after Ichiro made that request for training.

Solas must have seen him come in, because he nodded at Ichiro in greeting while Ichiro picked up his meal from Flissa at the bar: oatmeal with honey and a few slices of buttered bread, along with a mug of tea.

Ichiro sighed quietly as he sat across from Solas. While the bread was good and the tea and porridge satisfactory, he deeply missed his own preferred breakfast of yudofu, miso soup, and green tea.

Suddenly, it occurred to him that, given where he was, he would never taste tofu, or miso, ever again. His heart sank at the thought, at the idea that he was completely severed even from the tastes he was accustomed to, never mind the sights and sounds of his world: the high-spirited chaos of Osaka in full summer-festival swing, the quiet optimism of the shrines and temples of Kyoto in spring-blossom splendor, the mystical serenity of the slopes of Mount Kurama in autumn-leaf brocade.

“Is something the matter, Ichiro?”

Ichiro glanced at Solas, and managed a small smile before shaking his head. “It is nothing, Solas-_san_. I simply realized that I will no longer be able to eat the food I used to eat, back in my world.”

“I see.” Solas leaned back, resting against the backrest of his chair. “Food is a touchstone for many people, a source of comfort. I am sorry you are deprived of that here in Thedas.”

Ichiro nodded, acknowledging that it was indeed a sad thing, cradling the emotion like a sake cup filled to the brim. “So am I. But there is nothing I can do.” He exhaled, letting the emotion pass. “_Sugitaru wa nao oyabazaru ga gotoshi._”

“Beg pardon?”

“It is a saying that I was taught when I was a child. It means: ‘Let what is past, flow away downstream.’ I have been living by that tenet since we arrived, though it has been difficult.”

Solas nodded, not speaking for a while, but at length, he said: “Whoever told you that was wise.”

“They were.”

Ichiro finished his meal in silence, speaking up only when he was done. “Shall you help me again today, Solas-_san_? Tessa-_chan_ and I have prepared the plum blossom poles, so it will be a good time for you to test her.”

“I would be glad to help you. Lead the way.”

Ichiro returned his utensils to Flissa at the bar, smiling briefly when she stammered her gratitude, her cheeks tinted with a blush. As he faced the door, he watched Teresa step in, a hand over her mouth as she yawned hugely.

“Good morning, Tessa-_chan_,” he said, smiling warmly at the woman who was both his apprentice and one of his closest friends. He loved everyone in Nest, to be sure, but he was especially fond of Teresa. He never had sisters growing up, older or younger, so to have her near was a treat to him.

“Good,” a yawn, “morning, Ichi,” Teresa replied. She scrubbed at her face with one slightly curled fist, reminding Ichiro of a cat washing its face with a paw. He found it endearing, how she could do something so childlike despite being in her early thirties. “Plum blossom poles today? Oh, good morning Solas.”

“Good morning, Lady Teresa,” Solas greeted, nodding his head.

Teresa smiled at him, then glanced back Ichiro, who replied: “Yes, plum blossom poles today. And Solas-_san_ will help us as well.”

Teresa blinked, alertness flashing into her gaze as Ichiro’s statement penetrated the fading sleep-fog in her brain. “Oh. So: magic?”

“Yes.”

Teresa groaned, but nodded. “I’m gonna need to fortify myself then. I’ll see you at the training grounds once I’m done.” She waved at Solas and squeezed Ichiro briefly around the waist in a one-armed half-hug as she walked past, calling out to Flissa to give her the strongest tea she had with her breakfast.

“You are quite fond of her,” Solas remarked as he and Ichiro stepped out of the Singing Maiden and made their leisurely way to the training grounds.

Ichiro nodded. “I am. Tessa-_chan_ is as a sister to me.”

“A sister? Ah. I had thought there was something more between you two, considering that she seems so physically affectionate.”

Ichiro chuckled. “That is just how Tessa-_chan_ is. The Andradas show how they care through touch. If you see her with the others, you will note that she is quite free with her touches, for those whom she chooses to bestow them and who choose to welcome the privilege. Rafe-_kun_ is the same, though he is more reserved about it than Tessa-_chan_.”

He paused, then amended: “Unless he is with his wife. That is different.”

“I see.” Solas uttered a quiet sigh. “It must be a delight, to have such close, fond companionship with someone – to say nothing of your friendship with the rest of your friends. Affection so freely given is rare – and a privilege.”

Ichiro nodded, all too aware of what Solas meant. His family had been rather cold, so it had been something of a shock when he’d first encountered the Andradas and their openness with each other when it came to affection and touch. But he’d quickly gotten used to it, and even came to enjoy it. He learned that it _was_ possible for family members to be warm with each other, to freely laugh and hug one another, to be vocal in their approval and wholehearted in their support.

It was why he could do without his blood family, but absolutely could _not_ do without his found family.

He and Solas arrived at the training grounds then, where the plum blossom poles he and Teresa had set up the day before were now waiting, covered in a coat of frost. Ichiro wiped the frost off, and then pushed at one of the poles with his foot as hard as he could. It did not budge: a good sign, since it meant that it was not likely to wobble underneath his or Teresa’s weight when they started using it. He was not eager to be the focus of Elinor’s ire, after all, simply because he neglected to take proper safety precautions.

Soon enough, Teresa came towards him and Solas, carrying two quarterstaffs with her, with one end balanced on her shoulder. They were not proper _bō,_ but they would do for training purposes.

“Hey,” she called, waving a hand in greeting when she was close enough. “I got the staves, like you told me to yesterday. Oh, and the Commander and Sister Nightingale are gonna come over and watch in a little bit. And Elie’s gonna be around too, I’m sure.”

“The Commander and Sister Nightingale did mention they would watch,” Ichiro said with a nod. “And Elinor-_san_’s presence is not surprising.”

“Betcha Rafe’s gonna be here too so he can laugh at me when I get zapped with a lightning bolt.” Teresa turned to Solas. “That’s…pretty much what you’re going to do, right? Fry me, freeze me, zap me? I got that right?”

Solas chuckled. “That is one way of putting it, yes. I can wield Inferno, Winter, and Storm magic offensively, but I can wield Spirit magic as well. So I may indeed fry, freeze, and zap you, but I can heal you as well.

“Still, rest assured that I will not put the full force of my power behind my attacks. This is only training, after all. I do not wish to hurt you. Overmuch.”

Teresa smirked, and wagged a finger at Solas. “I heard that. Still, you’re right: you can’t _not_ expect some pain during training. How else would you know what you’re doing right? Or wrong, for that matter.” She put the quarterstaffs down on top of the second-tallest plum blossom pole (which stood three feet off the ground), and turned to Ichiro. “Stretching?”

Ichiro nodded, and proceeded to go through the cycle of stretches that he had taught Teresa, the two of them working in tandem to get their muscles warmed up and stretched out to prevent further injury while they sparred. Solas, for his part, merely sat down on one of the plum blossom poles, watching them with interest.

“I find it interesting that you seem to be focusing on flexibility,” he remarked as he watched Ichiro and Teresa bend themselves over to touch their toes, repeating the movement a few times before they kicked their right legs up behind them, catching the foot in their hands, and pulling.

“Flexibility is more useful than strength, in the way we fight,” Ichiro replied, measuring his breaths as he stretched his right leg, Teresa doing the same, but pulling higher so that her leg pointed almost straight up into the air. With her back arched like that, she reminded Ichiro of a drawn _hankyū_. “Speed as well. We are— What was the term Sister Nightingale used, Tessa-_chan_?”

“Rogues,” Teresa replied, grunting slightly as she dropped her torso all the way forward in a controlled fashion so that she clutched the ankle of the leg she was standing on, and held, keeping herself steady with her breathing and by clenching various muscles in her core – which was the point of the whole exercise. Ichiro could do the same pose, but he had to brace his hands on the ground instead of holding onto his ankle.

Ichiro nodded, and replied to Solas: “Yes. Rogues. But where we are from, where _I _am from, we are called _shinobi_: spies, saboteurs, thieves when necessary – and assassins. We do not fight on the frontlines, but from the shadows. It is considered a most dishonorable profession, amongst my people, but we accept that stain of dishonor because we are still necessary. Honor is a useful shield, but one that cannot be put down, for to do so would be to undermine the virtue itself. _Shinobi_ do not think of what is honorable; we do what must be done.”

“Intriguing,” Solas murmured, his eyes narrowed in thought as he contemplated Ichiro’s response. In the meantime, Ichiro went back to stretching, doing splits like Teresa had started doing, stretching out his hamstrings and calves.

“You said ‘your people’,” Solas said after a moment. “I take this to mean that you do not consider yourself of the same race as, perhaps, Lady Teresa? But you are both human.”

“That’s true,” Teresa replied as she straightened, “but there’s no dwarves or elves where we’re from, so ‘race’ is usually determined using factors, like the color of your skin and the region your birth country’s located in. With some of us, like Ichi, Elie, Ed and Ly, it’s relatively easy to explain what their race is because the background’s not too complicated. But when you’re talking about me, Rafe, and James, that’s a _lot_ more complicated, because there’s a long, _long_ history of migration, colonization, and slavery behind our ancestry.”

“Slavery? Slavery is practiced in your world?”

Ichiro sat up at that, his attention drawn to the tone of Solas’ voice. He heard indignation in the elf’s tone, yes, but also something darker, something that went deeper than Ichiro could tell at the moment. If he did not know any better, he would almost say that the elf was angry at him and Teresa.

“Was,” Teresa said firmly. “_Was_ practiced. We don’t anymore. No one does. But,” here she winced, and shook her head, “there’s many _other_ ways you can define slavery, and in some places, people are forced to suffer living conditions that render them no better than slaves, even though no one actually uses the term.”

“But we fought against that,” Ichiro said, getting onto his feet, and helping Teresa onto her own. “It was one of the things our team did, before we were brought here. We have seen slavery, yes, and whenever we did, we freed the enslaved and punished their slavers.”

He glanced at Teresa, and put an arm around her shoulders, holding her to him. “We saw injustice in the world, and sought to correct it. We did so with no support from anyone, without acknowledgement for the good we did save for the gratitude of those we aided. We need nothing more than to know we have done the right thing.”

Solas stared at them, his jaw set in a hard line as if he was angry. At length, however, he relaxed, and sighed, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I was simply caught off-guard when you had said that there was slavery in your world. I had imagined your world to be more enlightened than this one, far above the cruelties so often perpetrated here, so to learn that slavery did exist in your world, that it continues to exist though it is not called that… Well. What matters, is you fought against it. You saw it, and you fought it, even without acknowledgement or promise of reward.”

He paused, his eyes growing dark, and then intense. “Would you do that here?” he asked softly. “If you saw such injustice here, would you do all you could to fight against it? To right the wrong, to redress the hurt?”

Ichiro and Teresa exchanged a look. Neither of them knew where this was coming from, or where it was going, but it was clear from Solas’ expression that their response was important to him, and Ichiro was not sure what to say.

But that was why he was Hayabusa, and Teresa was Raven. In the end, it was she who turned to Solas, and replied, softly: “We would try. It would depend on circumstances, but we _would_ try.”

Solas continued to stare at them both for a moment, but in the end, he sighed, and it seemed like whatever turbulent emotion had taken over him in that moment had passed. “Yes. That is— Yes. To know you would try is more than could ever be expected from strangers to Thedas. This is not your world, but to know you would try to fight against any wrongdoing regardless is…reassuring.”

He paused again, and then seemed to shake himself, getting to his feet as he did so. “But I have distracted you. I apologize for that.” He glanced at Teresa. “Are you ready to see how you will fare against magic? I must admit, I am rather curious to see how you would handle it, as compared to Ichiro.”

Teresa offered the elf a smile, and a shrug. “Same-same but different too, probably. He’s got his style, and I’ve got mine.”

“Indeed,” Ichiro agreed, letting Teresa go and stepping away from her to pick up the quarterstaffs. He took one, and tossed the other to his friend, who caught it with ease.

“We shall spar for a moment, Solas-_san_,” he said. “I think we both need a more thorough warming-up before Tessa-_chan_ tries to dodge fireballs.”

He grinned at Teresa. “Is the Hummingbird ready?”

Teresa’s answering grin was bright and eager. “More than ready, Hayabusa.”

“Excellent.” Ichiro climbed onto the plum blossom poles, choosing two poles to stand on while Teresa did the same across from him. She held her quarterstaff at the ready, her body relaxed and loose, prepared for anything that might come her way.

Ichiro nodded in approval, and readied his own quarterstaff. He counted one heartbeat, then two, before finally yelling the word that would start their sparring match.

“_Hajime!_”

\-----

Cullen could already hear the sound of wood striking wood as he, Cassandra, Leliana, and Elinor walked to the training grounds to see what sort of training Ichiro and Teresa were doing. Leliana and Elinor were behind him and Cassandra, talking quietly about something to do with a report from Josephine that had come in yesterday.

“They appear to have started already,” Cassandra remarked, and then frowned. “As well as gathered an audience.”

Cullen followed the Seeker’s gaze to the training grounds, and indeed, a small crowd of new recruits, as well as a few Templars, had gathered on the edge of the training ground where Teresa and Ichiro had set up their plum blossom poles yesterday. He frowned, and picked up his pace, intending to break the crowd up so they could go on with the rest of their own training—

Only to stop, and stare, when he finally saw just what it was Ichiro and Teresa were doing.

Quarterstaffs were not favored as weapons because of their low prestige. It was the weapon of vagabonds, of refugees: people who were too poor to afford something better, and so armed themselves with what essentially amounted to a big stick. And though the quarterstaff bore only a superficial resemblance to the magical staffs mages used, apostates sometimes disguised their magical staffs as quarterstaffs, and so anyone who wielded the weapon was looked upon with suspicion, if not outright hostility.

But watching Teresa and Ichiro as they swung, spun, and thrust their quarterstaffs at each other, occasionally throwing seemingly acrobatic kicks into the mix, swirling and whirling between and around their weapons and each other, Cullen began to see how his opinion regarding the quarterstaff might have been wrong. Wielded in the manner that Ichiro and Teresa did, a quarterstaff was an excellent weapon. It was easy to switch between offense and defense with a change of grip and an alteration of stance, and without the added encumbrance that would come from a shield or a heavy weapon, it was possible to move with near-blinding speed, allowing for evasive movements instead of head-on parries if such was necessary. And while a strike from a quarterstaff would not pierce through flesh, let alone armor, it could cause far worse damage: broken bones, for example, or dents in armor that could restrict movement and breathing.

It was only then that he noticed something: Ichiro and Teresa appeared to standing at a higher level than the ground, and appeared to be moving up and down as well as around each other. He glanced down, and realized that they were fighting _on top_ of the plum blossom poles they had set up the day before. It was then he remembered: balance training. Ichiro and Teresa taught themselves how to balance well by fighting on top of the poles, which varied in width and height for additional unpredictability. It forced them to be nimble, he saw, to learn how to adjust at the last minute while also thinking of their opponent’s moves.

He wasn’t sure if it would work for warriors such as himself, or the regular recruits for the Inquisition army, but it would certainly work brilliantly for rogues.

“This is incredible,” Leliana murmured, and when Cullen glanced at her he saw her watching the two otherworlders with avid interest. “And I should perhaps consider adding quarterstaffs to our agents’ repertoire. It is easy to disguise as a walking stick; trained agents could masquerade as pilgrims or tinkers. Would you mind if we built more of these plum blossom poles on the training grounds, Commander?”

“Not at all,” Cullen replied. “Feel free to take some of the off-duty men and have them construct more. There should be sufficient space on this side of the training grounds.”

“Thank you.”

A shout drew their attention back to Ichiro and Teresa, and Cullen noted their poses: Teresa balanced one leg on the tallest pole, the other pulled up and tucked neatly underneath her as she held her quarterstaff to the side. Her head was turned away to one side, though her gaze was fixed on her opponent. Ichiro, for his part, had one foot planted firmly on one pole while the other was balanced on the edge of the pole Teresa was standing on, so that he was lunged forward and the tip of his quarterstaff pressed lightly against the side of Teresa’s neck, just under the curve of her jaw.

For a moment, the two of them stared at each other, breathing hard as evidenced by the mist that puffed out from their partially open mouths. At length, however, Teresa grinned, and tapped her free hand twice on Ichiro’s outstretched arm. “I yield.”

Ichiro’s expression changed from intense to pleased, and he pulled away from Teresa to stand on both feet on two separate poles. Teresa, for her part, relaxed and put both feet on the pole she was standing on. “You did well, Tessa-_chan_. Slower than I remember, but we can correct that.”

Teresa grimaced as she stepped down from the poles, following Ichiro’s lead. “Yeah, I know. But like you said, we can correct that.”

She glanced up then, and when their gazes met Cullen blushed when she returned his gaze with a grin. She glowed with her exertions, her cheeks pink despite the cold weather, and the little strands of hair that escaped the severe braid she pulled her hair back into during the daytime gave her a delightfully rumpled look. She looked happy, and Maker, but seeing her that way made Cullen want to be the reason behind that smile.

“Good morning,” she called, waving to them and causing the crowd to look at them – a crowd that instantly dispersed with frantic hisses of “It’s the Commander!” and “Shit, the Lady Seeker!” when its constituents realized that their Commander and the Seeker were among them.

Cassandra uttered a snort as the recruits scattered, but her expression changed to something appreciative and approving when Ichiro and Teresa approached. “That was an interesting display, Ser Ichiro, Lady Teresa. It is immensely comforting to know that such skilled rogues will be a part of the Inquisition.”

Ichiro smiled. “It is no trouble, Lady Seeker.” He glanced at the dispersing crowd, his handsome face pulling downwards in a slight grimace. “I had not intended to disrupt the recruits, however. Perhaps we should have chosen to situate ourselves in a more secluded area.”

“No, there is no need. They shall simply have to learn to be more focused on their own training,” Cullen said. “I have seen the benefits of these plum blossom poles, and while I do not know if they can be used by those with warrior training, Leliana has already expressed a wish to have more built, so the rogues under her command can train on them.”

“I would be gratified if you would assist them as well,” Leliana said then, smiling charmingly at Ichiro. “Such a simple tool, but with such extraordinary benefits, should not be restricted to just your use, when more could gain from them. Do you not think so?”

Ichiro nodded. “I would be honored to help, Sister Nightingale.”

“I’ll help out too, if you need me,” Teresa offered.

Leliana smiled. “I would appreciate that, yes.”

Ichiro, however, clicked his tongue. “Not yet, Tessa-_chan_. Not until you learn how to handle magic.”

“So that’s today then?” Elinor said all of a sudden, gliding up towards them with a frown on her face. She glanced at Teresa. “Are you sure you can handle it?”

Teresa shrugged. “If not now, when? Might as well start as early as possible.”

“I suppose,” Elinor said with a resigned sigh. After a moment, she turned a sharp, assessing gaze on Teresa. “Any injuries?”

“Um…there were a few strikes to my back and hip, and some hits to my shins and calves, but it feels more like bruises. Nothing broken.”

“I see. Well, just make sure you don’t push yourself too hard.” Elinor turned to Ichiro then, and snapped her fingers. “Come here, Ichi. Let me look you over.”

Ichiro’s brows went up in alarm. “There is no need, Elinor-_sa_—”

“Don’t even start. You lie like my husband does about your injuries, so no excuses.”

“Come now—”

“You know very well I am immune to any and all pleas and protests, Takenaka Ichiro. Now stow it and come here, because _shinobi_ or no, I can and _will_ sit on you if it’s my only recourse.”

Throughout this exchange, Teresa had a hand pressed to her mouth to stifle her giggles, even as Elinor all but dragged Ichiro to the side so she could inspect him better. “And _that_ right there is why I never bother trying to cover up any injuries I get when Elie asks about them.”

“Lady Elinor is a strong woman,” Cassandra said, an appreciative smile curving her lips, “and she has little patience for foolishness. Those are good traits in a healer.”

“That’s true.” Teresa stretched, then tilted a glance at Cullen. “So, you don’t mind us taking over this part of the training yard, Commander?”

Cullen opened his mouth to remind her of their agreement the night before, but closed it when he remembered that Cassandra and Leliana were around. He doubted it would be professional for someone who was technically a subordinate to call him by his first name, no matter how much he might want to hear her say it. “I do not mind. You will make good use of it, I’m sure – though I will have to tighten discipline on the recruits a little, if that’s how you will spar with each other. It was almost like watching acrobats, or dancers.”

Now Teresa laughed. “Thanks for that, Commander. Incidentally I did take some dance lessons when I was younger, and then when I started training in self-defense I found that my dance skills translated pretty well to the footwork and the balancing.”

At that, an image flitted through Cullen’s mind: of Teresa dressed in a light, embroidered linen dress, a ring of bright summer flowers crowning her dark head as she laughed and traipsed a dance with other women and girls during Honnleath’s Summerday festival.

He glanced away; willing the image out his mind, knowing it was impossible. Honnleath was gone, and after everything that had happened to him, after all the things he had done, what he had become… There would be no more Summerday festival dances, no more lovely dark-haired girls with flowers in their hair. Not for him, at any rate.

Oblivious to his mood, Teresa turned to Solas, who was standing quietly on the sidelines, taking them all in. “Solas, we can start now, I think.”

The elf glanced at her, and nodded. “If you say so. Shall you be using your plum blossom poles?”

“No, let’s try this on even ground for now. Later on Ichi’s gonna push me to try on the poles, but right now I want to just get an idea of what to expect.”

“Very well. Come this way, and we shall begin.”

Teresa followed Solas, and Cullen followed her with his gaze. He was a little worried about how she would handle the combat magic Solas was going to sling her way, but it was also true that she needed to learn how to deal with magical assault.

“She’s quite a lovely woman, wouldn’t you say?”

Cullen glanced at Leliana. “Beg pardon?”

Leliana’s mouth curled in a knowing smile. “Lady Teresa.”

Cullen stared at the spymaster, wondering where this line of questioning was going. “I— Yes. She is.”

“Intelligent, witty, with a unique charm – and have you ever seen such a smile? I envy her dimples.” Leliana sighed theatrically. “Josie thinks we should send her with diplomatic delegations to Orlais. She is certain Lady Teresa would have them eating from the palm of her hand – to say nothing of the line of admirers and would-be suitors that would stretch from here to Val Royeaux. Imagine the kind of support she could raise for our cause.”

Cullen frowned, remembering the talk he had with Teresa the previous night. She was still so uncertain about Thedas and her place in it, and now Leliana wanted to throw her into the wolf’s den that was Val Royeaux – land of masks and secrets and that maddening Game they were so fond of? He had to protect her from that. “Be it far from me to tell you what to do with your agents, but I do not think that’s a good idea.”

“Oh?”

“Lady Teresa is still uncertain about her place in our world. She feels she isn’t prepared enough to face it, that she knows too little about it to protect her friends. Val Royeaux – or anywhere near any Orlesians, for that matter - is the last place she ought to be. She’d get eaten alive.”

The smirk on Leliana’s face was like a trap springing shut – and Cullen was too late in spotting it. “And how would you know this information, Commander? I’ve not had the time to truly sit down and speak with her, so I find it interesting that she has confided something so personal to you. How did you manage to earn her trust so quickly?”

“I—I do not know. She simply confided in me, that’s all.”

“Is it, really?” Leliana peered more closely at him. “Or are you actively trying to get closer to her?”

“Maker’s breath Leliana,” Cullen growled at last. “I’d never take advantage of the lady’s vulnerability – and she _is_ that, make no mistake. If she chooses to speak to me and trust me with secrets, I consider it an honor and would not betray that trust for any reason at all.”

At that, Leliana smiled brightly, dropping the coy façade she’d adopted earlier. “Well, that is good to hear.” She patted him on his vambrace, looking incredibly cheerful. “It pleases me to know you are capable of focusing on other things than just your work, Cullen. Your work is invaluable to us, but it is not the _only_ thing in life worth thinking about.”

That statement caught Cullen on the wrong foot – not least because Leliana addressed him so informally. “Wait, I—”

“_Aray!”_

_\-----_

Oh that was _so not fair,_ Teresa thought as she rubbed her backside. She tried to peer at her butt to see what kind of damage had been done, but since it was impossible to turn her head that far, she then turned to glare at Solas.

“You spanked me with a lightning bolt!” she exclaimed indignantly.

Solas merely smirked, and shrugged, the smug ass. “That is the nature of Storm magic, Teresa. It can strike unexpectedly, and from any angle. If you don’t wish to get struck again you will need to ensure you protect your rear as well as your front and sides.”

“_Mean_.”

“Pain is a good teacher.”

Teresa snorted. “You and Ichi have the exact same approach to training, I swear.” She sighed, then took up another defensive stance. Still, Solas was right: if Storm magic could strike her from unexpected angles, she’d have to prepare for that. “Right, let’s try that again.”

“Very well.” Solas swung his staff, launching several bolts at her. This time, Teresa made sure to guard her back as well, and managed to get through the next series of attacks without being struck too often – though she had a suspicion that Solas was deliberately aiming for her rear, given where most of those strikes landed.

At length, Elinor called a halt to the proceedings, which was just as well as Teresa was getting tired trying to swing her quarterstaff around far enough and fast enough to block those godsdamned lightning bolts Solas was hurling at her.

“You can try and zap her another time, Solas,” Elinor stated as she approached to check Teresa over for injuries. “She’s had more than enough for one day.”

Solas smiled, and did a kind of half-bow. “As the Lady Healer wishes.”

He glanced at Teresa, and beckoned to her. “Come here a moment.”

Teresa frowned, wondering what he was going to do, but then a soft green light emanated from him as he waved something towards her. Almost instantly, all her aches and pains were gone – well, _mostly_ gone, as there were still a few twinges here and there when she moved, and she still felt tired from her exertions.

He’d healed her. With magic. Just as he said he could.

“Goodness,” Elinor murmured as she turned to Solas, eyes wide. “I think I would cheerfully murder someone to be able to do that.”

Solas chuckled, and shook his head. “A mage is not made, I’m afraid. One is either born able to wield magic, or not.”

He paused, and sighed. “But the life of a mage is not one I would wish on anyone. Not the way the world stands, at any rate.”

Teresa grimaced, knowing what he meant. She’d seen the prejudice mages faced every day in and around Haven, to say nothing of what the elves had to deal with. She and the others had done their best to counter it whenever they could, each in their own way (she was convinced that Seggrit had a hate-on for them all, given the number of times they’d shut him down), but it was difficult combating what appeared to be hundreds of years of deep-seated prejudice. It wasn’t easy, but if they didn’t at least try, then who else would?

She went over, and gently nudged Solas in the side. When the elf looked at her, she grinned brightly. “Thanks for healing me up,” she said. “Especially after you kept on smacking my ass with the lightning.”

Solas blinked at her, and then offered her a tentative smile. “Where the lightning goes has nothing to do with me, Teresa. Defend yourself better, and your rear will not be as much of a target.”

“Oh boo,” Teresa pouted, causing the elf to chuckle before he turned away from them, approaching Ichiro and speaking to him briefly before he walked over to Cassandra, speaking to her about something as the two of them walked back through the gates of Haven.

“It’s incredible what he’s done,” Elinor remarked as they, too made their way back towards Haven. “It would make my job infinitely easier if I could just wave a hand, or wiggle my fingers, and have you back in shape.”

“I can imagine,” Teresa agreed. Elinor might be a brilliant trauma surgeon, especially since she was incredibly adaptable and capable of working near-miracles on limited resources, but she could understand why the idea of healing someone in the blink of an eye was appealing. “But it’s not perfect. I can still feel a few twinges in my hamstrings and calves, and a couple of the deeper bruises from the sparring session with Ichi and then the magic from Solas. The healing didn’t get rid of the fatigue, either.”

“Didn’t it? That’s good information to know. I’ve been trying to observe when the mage healers do their work, but it’s hard to figure out what they’re doing because everyone is just so _used_ to the idea of magic working.” Elinor sniffed. “At least I understand the potions. Those make so much more sense.”

Teresa grinned. “Next time I get magically healed I could report back to you?”

“I’d prefer you didn’t _need_ to be healed, but if that were to happen… I would appreciate it.” Elinor smiled, and reached over, drawing Teresa close against her side so she could press a kiss on the other woman’s temple. “Thank you for offering to guinea-pig for me.”

Teresa laughed, and shrugged, giving Elinor a quick hug. “Only because I know you’d hunt down anyone who didn’t treat me properly, and do horrible, horrible things to them.”

“Too bloody right,” Elinor agreed. With that, she let go of Teresa and went over to Ichiro – likely to pester him some more on whatever injuries he was still hiding.

“You are well, Lady Teresa?”

Teresa turned, and nodded at Sister Nightingale, who was coming towards her with Cullen just behind. “A bit tingly, but otherwise fine. Solas took the time to cast a healing spell on me so I don’t hurt so much now. I’m just a little tired.”

Sister Nightingale nodded in understanding. “A good meal should fix that. But afterwards, I would like you and your friends to come to the War Room. Josie and I have something important to discuss with you all, since I have received word that Chancellor Roderick and his coterie will be returning soon from Val Royeaux.”

Teresa frowned. “Chancellor Roderick?”

“A Chantry bureaucrat,” Cullen replied, his tone indicating that he didn’t particularly like this person they were talking about. “He has been calling for the dissolution of the Inquisition, and the imprisonment of the Herald for destroying the Conclave. It’s fortunate he and his lackeys were not here when you arrived; he might have demanded your immediate execution simply because you fell out of a rift.”

“Yikes,” Teresa muttered with a wince. “What are we gonna tell him when he gets here and suddenly there’s new people around?”

“That is precisely what I wished to discuss with you all,” Sister Nightingale said. “Josie and I have been thinking on this for a while, and I think we have a solution that will benefit not only yourselves, but the Inquisition as well.”

Teresa raised an eyebrow. “Well, color me curious.”

Sister Nightingale smiled. “I’d hoped you would be. Lady Elinor already knows, as I mentioned it to her earlier, but please inform the rest of your friends to come as soon as they have finished with the midday meal. I do not know how long this will take to explain, so we may be in the War Room for the rest of the afternoon.”

“Understood,” Teresa replied with a nod. She glanced at Haven’s gate, then turned to them. “I’m gonna go on ahead. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure we’re all at the War Room as soon as everyone’s done eating.”

At Sister Nightingale’s nod of acquiescence, she turned away and went on ahead, not seeing the soft look Cullen threw her way as she departed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRANSLATIONS:
> 
> bō – Japanese; the East Asian version of the Western quarterstaff and used in East Asian martial arts
> 
> hankyū – Japanese; a shorter variation on the Japanese bow, or yumi
> 
> Hajime! – Japanese; in the context of Japanese martial arts, it is used as a verbal command to signal the start of a sparring match
> 
> Aray! – Filipino; exclamation of pain equivalent to the English “ow!” or “ouch!”
> 
> The Japanese proverbs I used early in this chapter were lifted wholesale from various parts of the Internet. I have based their translation and meaning on those sites. If, however, you have a better translation or a more appropriate proverb that I could use, please feel free to comment with any suggestions you might have.


	5. Cover Stories

It had been a long time since James Reeves had found himself in a non-leadership role. The last time he’d been a follower, it had been when he was in the Marines. When he’d enlisted he’d been riding high on the stories of his maternal grandfather, who’d been one of the Tuskegee Airmen, and his paternal ancestor Bass Reeves, the greatest lawman of the Wild West. He’d been raised to remember that he was descended of heroes, who did what was right despite the prejudice and racism they faced, and he was determined to follow in their footsteps. And what better way than to sign up for the Marines? _Semper fidelis_ was their motto: “Always faithful”. And if there was anything James Reeves was, it was that he was faithful to the noble ideals of his family and his country.

Except he’d been wrong. All of his naïve, idealistic visions of serving his country were shaken even before he got to Afghanistan, and once there, were broken completely. He saw things that did not fit the ideals he’d been raised on, saw his leaders – the very people he trusted to make the right decisions – make the entirely wrong decisions over, and over, and over again, despite the cost in resources and lives, because those wrong decisions were more politic, or more convenient. And he’d been powerless to do anything against it, his hands tied because they were his superiors and he was just a jarhead in the ranks.

He tried to make the best of where he’d been. He tried to do what good he could. But it wasn’t enough. He quickly learned that, if he really wanted to do the most good, if he really wanted to change the world, he’d have to do it by _not_ playing by the rules. He’d have to go outlaw – and Many-Greats-Grandpa Bass forgive him for it. That was what Nest was: a group of people who worked outside the scope of the law, because it was the best and fastest way to do good – especially because those who made the law were, all too often, the same people who did the most harm.

But then they got brought here to Thedas, and everything changed. Now James was once again a follower, obeying someone else’s orders instead of just doing what he thought was best. So far it seemed like the Inquisition was doing the right thing, but there was also a _lot_ of controversy swirling around – so much that James wasn’t really always sure where the Inquisition stood on certain things. As a result, he’d had to lean hard on his teammates, the girls especially, because they seemed to have a better grasp of what was going on. For the most part, they’d assured him that the Inquisition was on the right path, and that had let him relax a little bit about not being in charge of much.

He’d have to find a way to thank the girls for all they’d done. He’d be totally lost without them feeding him information while he and Raphael trained alongside Commander Rutherford’s recruits, learning how to wield the literally medieval weapons that were the only ones available here. At the very least he hadn’t had to start at the very bottom, like some of the rawer recruits: running in metal armor, even plate armor, wasn’t any more difficult than running in his full Marine kit, nor was it any heavier, so he’d adapted pretty well to that. It was just the fighting part that was hard, because he was more used to guns than the kinds of weapons that were more Teresa and Ichiro’s speed. But he learned to adapt quickly, and now he was doing well enough that the Commander actually set him to teaching some of the recruits how to fight.

That was where he’d spent most of his morning: on the training grounds, teaching the newbies and sparring with some of the more seasoned soldiers to get his skills up. He’d taken to sparring with the Commander’s second, a former Templar captain named Rylen, and the man had taken the time to really help James’ fighting skills along – as well as enliven his social life. Thanks to Rylen James was on good terms with a few of the Templars who’d chosen to join the Inquisition: specifically, the ones who weren’t deeply prejudiced against mages and elves. It was a pity there were very few of the un-prejudiced ones, but at least it became easy to tell who was good people and who wasn’t based on whether or not they referred to an elf as a “knife-ear”.

“Oh, good afternoon, Ser James.”

James snapped out of his thoughts, and looked up to realize that Ambassador Montilyet was already in the room, along with the Herald, Maxwell Trevelyan. “Good afternoon, Ambassador Montilyet. Lord Trevelyan.”

The Herald chuckled, and shook his head. “Please, Ser James, there is no need to call me that. I am the youngest child in the family and don’t stand a chance at inheriting the title; that will likely go to my oldest brother, Matthew, and failing him, to my second-eldest brother, Martin. My elder sister Evelyn is a mage, and so she cannot inherit. So Maxwell will do; I prefer it, truth be told.”

James smiled, and nodded. “Sure, just as long as you call me James. That whole ‘ser’ business makes me itch. I’m not a knight or an officer.”

“You may have to submit to the title from time to time,” Ambassador Montilyet said, but her tone was sympathetic, as if she understood why James might not want to have the title. “Having some kind of title, even if it is only that of knighthood, can make living in Thedas go much more smoothly for you.”

“Fine, but I can drop it here, right?”

“Of course you can,” Maxwell assured.

The door opened again, and this time the others poured in: first Teresa and Lydia, who were quietly talking to each other, then Raphael and Elinor, then Edward and Ichiro. Behind them came Seeker Cassandra, Sister Nightingale, Varric Tethras, and then Commander Rutherford brought up the rear.

The door clanked shut behind the Commander, and suddenly the room was more crowded than it had been earlier. People shuffled around and muttered “Excuse me” and “Beg pardon” to one another, until at last they had gotten themselves arranged, with Sister Nightingale, Commander Rutherford, and Ambassador Montilyet standing on the far side of the giant table in the center of the room, then James and his team on the other side, along the wall into which the door was set. Seeker Cassandra, Varric, and Maxwell, on the other hand, stood off to one side at one end of the table.

“Thank you all for coming,” Sister Nightingale began, greeting them with a small smile. “I have asked you to come here because Josie and I have realized that there has been a bit of an oversight regarding yourselves and your presence here – an oversight that we now need to resolve, since Chancellor Roderick and his coterie will be returning soon from Val Royeaux.

“The oversight is this: you do not have origins here in Thedas. Since you have simply arrived from another world, there is no documentation of your existence in this world at all. This is a problem to say the least. After all, if someone – say, Chancellor Roderick – were to look into your backgrounds, finding nothing would be just as suspicious as finding something, if not more so. As a result, Josie and I have spent some time coming up with stories that root you here in Thedas.”

“These are not very detailed backgrounds,” Ambassador Montilyet said then. “I thought it best to leave many of the details open to interpretation, so that you may use your own backgrounds to fill in the blanks for others as you deem fit.

“Let us start with Ser James. ‘Reeves’ is a fairly common name across Ferelden and the Free Marches, so there will be no trouble fitting you in. At the Herald’s suggestion, I have decided that you used to be an Ostwick guardsman. Since the Herald is also from Ostwick, he may provide additional reinforcement of that fact, should it be necessary. Do you find this agreeable?”

James frowned. “What’s a guardsman do?”

“They are responsible for maintaining peace and order in a city, as well as security,” Maxwell replied. “In the Free Marches, they are also expected to act as part of the army should there be a threat to the city, whether that is a threat from within or invasion by another Marcher state. It has been a very long time, though, since Marcher battled Marcher.”

“A status quo for which we are all immensely grateful, as the Free Marches supply the food for fully half of Thedas,” Ambassador Montilyet chimed as she smiled at Maxwell. She glanced back at James. “Does this sound agreeable to you?”

James blinked, and shrugged. “Sounds close to what I used to do back home. I’ll take it. Ostwick guardsman it is – or was.”

Ambassador Montilyet nodded as she made a note on her pseudo-clipboard. “Excellent. Now for Lady Elinor. ‘Westhaven’ is a Fereldan name, and fairly common to the west of our current location, but there are others with the name elsewhere across the country. Therefore, I have decided that you were once a healer in Lothering. Leliana can vouch for you, if necessary.”

“There were Westhavens in Honnleath,” the Commander said then. “I remember they had a daughter, but I’m quite certain they died when the darkspawn overran the village.”

Ambassador Montilyet raised her eyebrows. “Oh? Was the daughter blonde?”

“I do not recall. The Westhavens kept to themselves, and lived on the opposite side of the village from where my family and I lived. I only ever crossed paths with the matriarch, who bought grain from us sometimes, and I remember she was blonde. The village was aware they had a daughter, but few people ever so much as caught a glimpse of her. I certainly never did.”

“Hmmm… That could be useful. The Blight created so much chaos that it is possible for someone to have survived when everyone else thought they were dead. What do you think, Leliana?”

Leliana nodded. “That would be a better idea, I think. Perhaps… Hm. Yes: born and raised in Honnleath, fled the Blight, and then wound up in Lothering afterwards. Fled the Blight again, perhaps to…Kirkwall?”

“Kirkwall, then Ostwick,” Maxwell stated. “Refugees from the Blight did wind up in our city, though not quite so many as in Kirkwall. Still, a healer is welcome anywhere, so it would be reasonable for a healer to make her way from Honnleath, then Lothering, then Kirkwall for a brief time, and then settle in Ostwick.

“Besides,” he added with a shrug, “James and Elinor need to have met at some point.”

“Indeed.” Ambassador Montilyet looked at Elinor. “Does this sound amenable to you, Lady Elinor?”

Elinor smiled. “It more than works, Ambassador Montilyet.” She glanced at James, and grinned. “And as soon as we met, I started berating you for getting into trouble and constantly forcing me to set your broken bones after trying to break up yet another bar fight.”

James laughed. “Yeah, that works.”

“Excellent,” Ambassador Montilyet said cheerfully. “Now, for Ser Edward. ‘Hanover’ is a Nevarran name, am I correct, Lady Pentaghast?”

James noticed how Seeker Cassandra twitched at the title, but she nodded. “It is a fairly common name in Nevarra, yes – especially in Cumberland. Not a noble house, though there are knights who bear the name.”

“Then it is as I hoped. We could say that you are Nevarran, and given your skill in alchemy we could say that you were born and studied in Cumberland. However, your story involves you spending more time traveling Ferelden and the Free Marches, learning new things as you go and offering your services as an alchemist for coin. Does this sound good to you?”

Edward shrugged. “If you think the story will hold under scrutiny, I have no complaints.”

“Very well. Now, we turn to the more, shall we say, _difficult_ stories.” Ambassador Montilyet turned to Lydia and Ichiro. “Your names – or surname in your case, Lady Lydia - are not Orlesian, Fereldan, Free Marcher, Nevarran, Antivan, Rivaini, or even Tevinter. That level of obscurity is troubling, but also freeing. I have decided, therefore, that you are from the island of Seheron – with the additional option for Ser Ichiro to claim that he is a Fog Warrior from those parts. It would certainly explain his very unique fighting skills.”

Lydia nodded slowly. “Sounds good. Also means I won’t have to twist myself around looking for a plausible explanation about my origins.”

“That is the intention. And you, Ser Ichiro?”

Ichiro shrugged. “I see nothing wrong with it. Lydia-_chan_ and I will coordinate our stories if we have to.”

“It would be good if you did, yes.” Ambassador Montilyet turned to Raphael and Teresa. “Now we come to you. ‘Andrada’ is a name that carries complications, mostly because it is – or rather, _was_ – a merchant house of some note in Antiva. They were originally of Rivaini extraction since the founders of the family came in the train of she who would be later known as Queen Asha Campana: a link that benefited them early on, since their association with her allowed them to secure many important trade agreements across Thedas. Over the hundreds of years since then they have fallen from the heights of glory, but were leading respectable, if largely unremarkable, lives until recently, when a sudden and tragic turn of events brought them back to the forefront of Antivan awareness.”

“What happened to them?” Raphael asked, his brow furrowing.

“They were massacred by Ianto, the Terror of Llomerynn, around ten years ago,” Ambassador Montilyet explained. “The Andrada family is known for its stance against slavery, and they took it upon themselves to destroy whatever slavers came within their reach. Unfortunately, they chose to interfere with Ianto’s business, and he decided to get rid of them once and for all. The details are hazy, but there are rumors that he hired the Antivan Crows to murder every single Andrada. Those rumors are patently untrue, as Leliana’s contact in the Crows informed us that there was no contract taken out for the Andrada family at any point in time. Therefore, Ianto did the deed himself, and attributed it to the Crows, who have since accepted responsibility for it to enhance their own infamy.

“In any case, this makes your story a bit more complicated. I have decided that you are the last two survivors of the Andrada family, who were not anywhere in Antiva when the massacre occurred. Since Ianto thinks he has murdered all the Andradas he has ceased to actively look for them, whilst you, having caught wind of the destruction of your family, have decided to stay away, lest Ianto come after you to finish what he started.”

Raphael whistled low. “So far, so Red Wedding.”

James snorted. “There wasn’t a wedding in this one, Rafe.”

“Actually, a majority of the Andrada family were indeed murdered while attending a wedding of one of their kin,” Ambassador Montilyet supplied. “It was to a lady of an unknown merchant family from Rialto, as I recall. Sadly, no one made it out alive from that event – not even the bride’s family.”

Raphael snorted. “See? Red Wedding.” He sobered, and glanced at Teresa. “But why were we away from the family at the time?”

Teresa tilted her head thoughtfully. “Maybe we could say we were looking for Serafina?”

James noticed Varric’s head pop up then, the dwarf’s eyes going wide for a moment before narrowing. He wondered what that was about, but Ambassador Montilyet drew his attention when she asked: “Who is Serafina?”

“My little sister. She disappeared ten years ago.” Teresa’s gaze clouded. “We’ll never find her now.”

Ambassador Montilyet’s expression was sympathetic. “I am sorry to hear that, Lady Teresa. But to your question: yes, it is a good reason to explain your absence from Antiva. It would suit what is known of the family; the Andradas were tight-knit, so for two of its scions to go seeking one of their own who had inexplicably disappeared would fall well within the expected behavior of members of the family.

“But that is not all. As you may know, I am Antivan, and am very well-versed in the laws and legalities of my country. In the event of an entire family suddenly falling, as the Andradas did, the businesses, properties and material wealth of said family is held in escrow by the Crown of Antiva until either a will is found or suitable heirs present themselves within twenty-five years. No will has been found, but since it has only been ten years since the massacre, you two can present yourselves as heirs of House Andrada. We can explain the ten-year absence by saying that you did not wish to present yourselves without appropriate protections, especially since Ianto is still at large. Now that you are with the Inquisition, you feel you are prepared to reclaim your birthright, and are coming forward out of obscurity in order to do so.

“However, if you do this, you will perforce be required to take up control your inheritance. That is to say, you will be required to manage the business and political interests of House Andrada.”

Raphael frowned. “But we don’t know shit about how to run one of these merchant houses. And isn’t it a bit disingenuous for us to say _we’re_ the heirs when we’re really not?”

“I understand that this is a daunting prospect, but there are advantages to it as well,” Ambassador Montilyet assured. “Firstly, you will have a place to go to when the Inquisition’s mission is over. You will have sufficient property and finances to live comfortably, as well as a regular source of income. Secondly, you will have respect and safety: House Andrada is not the most powerful of merchant families, but it has the distinction of having no enemies save Ianto.

“As for the disingenuous nature of the claim, that might be true, but in taking up control of House Andrada you will be doing a great service for Antiva. You will be sparing my country a very long, drawn out, and frankly speaking dangerous dance of manipulation, coercion, and assassination as the other merchant houses fight over the Andradas’ properties and business contracts. It is not often that a merchant family is so instantaneously snuffed out the way the Andradas were, and right now the entire country is holding its breath. If no heirs step forward, once that twenty-five-year limit runs out chaos will fall upon Antiva. It is highly likely the Crows will come into play, and when that happens…well. There have been a number of times in Antivan history when the Crows were directly involved in the affairs of the realm, and I would very much like_ not_ to see history repeat itself in my lifetime.

“In the more immediate future, you taking up the reins of House Andrada will be of benefit to the Inquisition. Their influence can be leveraged for our cause, and their business contracts and contacts can be turned to our aid.”

Sister Nightingale spoke up. “I don’t think I need to tell you that the Inquisition needs all the help it can get at the moment. Having the backing of an Antivan merchant house would go a very long way towards shoring up our cause in Antiva and Rivain, as well as helping legitimize us in the eyes of Orlais and Ferelden.”

James saw the way Raphael and Teresa exchanged troubled looks and started conversing with each other in low tones. He fully understood their hesitation.

What Sister Nightingale and Ambassador Montilyet were asking of them went way, _way_ beyond the cover stories they’d concocted for everyone else. They were making moves in a grander game that James didn’t understand, and his friends – his family – were about to become pieces in that game. And he hated the idea, hated that these two women he barely even knew had decided, out of opportunism and a sense of expediency, to put his friends in a position which would just make their lives even more complicated than it already was – to say nothing of the fact that this Ianto person might still come around and kill them.

But it wasn’t his decision to make. This was down to Raphael and Teresa, and whether or not they’d allow themselves to be used that way. And after what Ambassador Montilyet had told them about what would happen in Antiva if they refused, and after Sister Nightingale said their support would really help the Inquisition out, James had a pretty good feeling he knew what the response of the Andrada cousins was going to be.

He was proven right when Teresa looked back at Ambassador Montilyet and Sister Nightingale, and nodded slowly. “All right. If you think it’ll help the Inquisition and Antiva, let’s do what you suggested.”

Ambassador Montilyet smiled in relief, and even Sister Nightingale beamed.

“I— _Thank you_, both of you,” Ambassador Montilyet breathed. “You are well within your rights to refuse, but I am infinitely glad that you have chosen to accept. And do not worry about your lack of knowledge; I will be here to assist, and you are both very intelligent, so I am sure you will grasp the intricacies in short order.”

“But you do not need to worry about that right now,” Sister Nightingale soothed. “There are plenty of legalities that need to be sorted out before they need to do anything on their own, right Josie?”

“Of course, yes, that is true. There will be plenty of time.” Ambassador Montilyet paused, staring at the two Andradas. “But tell me: which of you will be head of house, once the time comes?”

Teresa and Raphael looked at each other.

“Well shit,” Raphael blurted. “What are the rules about that, exactly?”

“Every family had its own individual quirks regarding inheritance, but generally, control of a family’s assets falls to the line of the eldest in the family. In my case, I am the eldest child, as my father was before me, and so I am in control of the Montilyet businesses.” Ambassador Montilyet’s gaze grew distant, briefly, but then she shook her head as if to dismiss her thoughts, and focused once more on the Andrada cousins. “I know you are older than Lady Teresa, Ser Raphael, so perhaps…?”

“Whoa, no, no, no,” Raphael averred with a rapid shake of his head. “My head is shit when it comes to this sort of thing. I’d just collapse the entire merchant house if you gave it to me.”

He grinned evilly, and glanced at Teresa. “And besides: Tessa’s dad was older than my dad. Shouldn’t that mean it technically falls to her?”

Teresa scowled. “Thanks _ever_ so much for throwing me under the bus, cuz.”

“_Labyu_, cuz.”

“_Tse_.” Teresa sighed, and shrugged. “But you’ve got a point. You _are_ terrible at anything to do with politics. So I guess that means I become, what, head of house?”

“Yes.” Ambassador Montilyet smiled encouragingly. “All will be well, Lady Teresa, do not worry. I will be here to assist you at any and every turn, and eventually, I am sure you will be able to manage with aplomb on your own.

“But, as Leliana said, you need not worry about it right now. The legalities are a tangled wood at the moment and will take some time to sort out. So in the meantime, you need not concern yourself over this.”

“What is more important is that you and your companions get your story straight,” Sister Nightingale said. “As Josie mentioned, your cover stories are rather basic. It will be up to you to explain how it is you came to work together, and to come here to the Inquisition.”

She tilted her head at Varric. “You will help them with that, won’t you, Varric?”

Varric blinked. “Me?”

“Yes. You are a storyteller after all. If anyone can help them string together a plausible tale to explain how they met and why they started working together, it would be you.”

Varric stared, but in the end, chuckled, and shrugged. “You got me there, Nightingale.” He glanced at James and the others with a wry smirk. “If you want to get started on that now, how about we head over to the tavern and you tell me your stories over some drinks? Then we’ll see how we can squeeze it all together in a way that makes sense in Thedas.”

James nodded. “Sounds good to me.” He turned to Sister Nightingale. “This Chancellor Roderick. When’s he scheduled to arrive?”

“Within a week. Two weeks, at the very latest,” the spymaster replied.

“Ah. Right. Means we got to get this story hammered out soon so we have time to really settle into it.” He glanced at the rest of his team. “All right, let’s get started on that then. You want to join us now Varric, or do you mind if we go on ahead?”

“I’ll come with you now,” the dwarf said with a shrug as he fell in alongside James.

“I will come with you as well,” Seeker Cassandra said as she fell in on James’ other side. “We cannot let Varric concoct too extravagant a tale, else no one will believe it.”

“But those are the stories that _everyone_ believes, Seeker,” Varric protested, though there was an edge to his tone that James hadn’t heard until now. “The more extravagant the story, the more people are inclined to believe it really happened.

Cassandra snorted. “This is not one of your novels; these are cover stories. They need to be realistic so as not to arouse the suspicions of others.”

“Like the stories our people have been telling about our Herald and Andraste?” Varric chuckled wryly. “Trust me on this Seeker: I know what I’m doing.”

Cassandra snorted in disgust, and shook her head at the dwarf. James gave her a questioning look, and the woman offered him a small, wry smile.

“Do not worry,” she murmured, her voice low and curling around that _gorgeous_ accent she had. “Whatever tale Varric spins, I will ensure it makes sense to the world at large. Leliana and Josephine will ensure the same.”

James smiled, and nodded. “I'm sure that’s true, Lady Seeker.”

“Please call me Cassandra. We are to be working together from now on, are we not?”

“Good point. Then just call me James. Like I told the Herald, being called ‘ser’ makes me itch.”

Both of Cassandra’s brows went up. “But is that not what you were, in your world? Did you not say you were a soldier?”

James shrugged. “I wasn’t ever an officer, just another enlisted jarhead in the ranks. So no, I was never a ‘ser’, not even in my world.”

“I see.” Cassandra fell silent then, but it was a thoughtful kind of silence, and James didn’t know what else he could say, so he just kept quiet as well, the two of them following the others into the Singing Maiden, where they all sat down at the table closest to the fireplace while Varric called for a round of drinks for everyone.

“All right,” the dwarf declared as he sat down at the head of the table, waiting until everyone had a drink in hand before saying: “Tell me your stories.”

\-----

“…and that’s how we all got together.”

Cassandra stared, stunned, as James leaned back against his seat, having just finished telling the tale of how he met his companions: a tale that had taken hours to tell, since James would frequently turn to his friends to share their part of the story when it did not pertain directly to him.

It was an extraordinary story, to say the least, even if one left out all the aspects of James’ world, such as the fact that there was no magic, and in its place, science and technology had developed to such a degree that they could do things that might as well be magic. Even leaving that aside, the tale that James had told was as good as any of the stories Cassandra read in her spare time – and moreover, one she deeply related to: a tale of good people, who wanted to do what they could to change the world, but found themselves hobbled by the very institutions and laws they thought were supposed to protect and assist the powerless and downtrodden. And so, they rebelled, coming together to fight the darkness in their own way: in secret, without any recognition save the gratitude of those they aided, and the knowledge that they had done good in a world with precious little of it.

And in the center of it all was James Reeves: a soldier who believed so deeply in the ideals of his country, only for war to open his eyes to the corruption and injustice seething beneath the bright façade he’d thought was the truth. And yet, instead of succumbing to the corruption, he’d done his best to work against it, and then afterwards, escaped from it to do what good he could outside the confines of his country’s laws. That had sat ill with him, Cassandra could tell, but he had done it anyway, because his discomfort was as nothing in comparison to all the good he could do, and had done, eventually.

She had thought him worthy of admiration before, because of his leadership capabilities and the steadiness of his demeanor. But now she realized he was actually heroic. James had thought the world was good, but when it turned out it was not, he decided that simply letting it be was not good enough. He had been told that “This is the way the world works”, and he had rejected that statement entirely. It did not have to work that way. He would not let it continue to work that way, because it _did not _and _should not_ have to work that way.

Maker, Cassandra thought, how could such a man be real? How could such a man be sitting next to her, staring into his ale like any other man she had ever known, living and breathing, when he ought to be something that existed only in her imagination?

“Huh,” Varric murmured as he sipped his ale. “That’s quite the tale you’ve told me.”

“It’s our story,” James said with a shrug.

“Yeah, it is.” Varric put down his mug, and stared at them all in silence. At length, he said: “All right, here’s what I think your story should be – leaving aside all the details about your world, of course.

“James Reeves is an Ostwick guardsman during the Fifth Blight. He meets Elinor Westhaven, a Fereldan healer originally from Honnleath, in Ostwick where she settled after running far enough away from the darkspawn for her taste. They strike up a friendship based on combating injustice and Elinor snarking at James for injuring himself unnecessarily while trying to surreptitiously undermine his corrupt commanding officers so he could do the most good for those in need.

“In the meantime, the last Andrada scions, Teresa and Raphael, are in Seheron, where they’ve just landed after fleeing Rivain in the wake of learning about their family’s massacre. It’s just as well, since they’ve also found some clues that point to Seheron as the last place Serafina was seen at. They look for said sister while simultaneously trying to keep a low profile to avoid Ianto, but they’re new to this disappearing act and so are discovered by assassins in Ianto’s employ – some say those assassins are Antivan Crows but nobody knows for sure.

“Anyway: they’re saved when a group of Fog Warriors, led by Ichiro, come into town just as they are about to get slaughtered. The assassins are killed, Raphael and Teresa escape, and Ichiro decides to take these strangers in. They can’t stay with him, of course, so he sends them to Lydia Lacapa, a Seheron native who’s working with the Fog Warriors. She has a farm in the countryside that functions as both food source and occasional forward camp for the Fog Warriors, and she needs help running it. So Ichiro sends the two Antivans to stay with her.

“That goes on for a year and a half, until Teresa finds leads indicating that her sister might not be in Seheron at all, but in Tevinter. So she and Raphael prepare to leave, but Ichiro and Lydia, out of a sense of loyalty and friendship, decide to leave the island they have called home to join their friends in their quest to find the still-missing Serafina. They take ship to…hm… Minrathous. And from there they follow a string of clues that leads them across the Imperium, having adventures along the way involving freeing slaves and destroying dangerous world-ending magical artifacts, along with death-defying escapes from enraged magisters, Carta assassins, and maybe even a spurned lover or two, because what kind of story would this be without a few romantic entanglements, am I right?”

Cassandra groaned at that. Varric ignored her.

“Either way, two years after leaving Seheron they find themselves in Kirkwall, where the trail finally goes cold. Uncertain about what to do, but accustomed now to life on the road, the four of them decide to keep moving along the coast of the Waking Sea until they get to Ostwick. Upon arrival, they meet James, who is by now so thoroughly disenchanted with his superiors that he’s just decided to quit. He meets the four adventurers in a tavern, is drawn to their story, and decides to join them in their new life as wandering adventurers. He invites Elinor to join them, she accepts, and after spending some time righting wrongs in Ostwick, they take up mercenary work all over the Free Marches, doing what they do best: fighting against injustice from the shadows.

“This work takes them all along the coast of the Waking Sea: Hercinia, Markham, Ostwick, and Kirkwall, though they’ve also taken a few trips across the Waking Sea into Highever and Amaranthine. At one point – maybe in Markham, that’d make some sense because of the university there – they meet Edward, who’s been wandering through the Free Marches doing alchemical research. He decides that it’s time to put his research to good use, and joins up with them on their journeys.

“And so it goes for the next few years, with adventures and romantic entanglements along the way, including a little wedding ceremony for Raphael and Elinor in the Kirkwall Chantry. Anyway, that same chantry blows up – thus destroying any records of the wedding, y’see? - and of course they’re involved in relief efforts in Kirkwall for a time, but slowly the Mage-Templar War pushes them out of Kirkwall and across the Waking Sea to Ferelden. They’re traveling through the Hinterlands on the way to Redcliffe to help out there when the Conclave blows up, the Breach opens, chaos and ruin follow, and they hear word of the Inquisition forming at Haven. Thinking that joining up’s their best option, they start heading this way, but during the trip a rift opens up over their heads, they get sucked in, and are dumped right on Haven’s doorstep. And that’s how you wind up joining our merry little band.”

Cassandra blinked, somewhat surprised. “That…sounds like a very believable story. Excellent work Varric.”

Varric rolled his eyes derisively. “What, were you thinking there’d be dragons, Seeker? A storyteller knows exactly how much to exaggerate, and exactly how much to downplay. Nightingale told me exactly what was needed: a _history_, not fiction.” He glanced at James and the others. “And I know there’s gaps in that story, but I meant for those to be there. I know you don’t need me to tell you this, but the closer a lie is to the truth, the better it’ll sound. I’ll leave it up to you to figure out the in-between bits: your adventures and all that. If you need help making it sound plausible, you can come to me and I’ll help you sort out the details.”

The otherworlders exchanged looks, but in the end, it was James who said: “We’ll do that Varric. And thanks for helping us sort this out.”

Varric grinned. “No problem, Captain. I like new stories.”

“Captain?” James queried, confused.

“That’s what you are, isn’t it? Captain of a mercenary company – which I know you said you aren’t, but here in Thedas that’s what we’d call you. So: you’re Captain.”

Teresa tilted her head. “It’s a good nickname. Suits you, James.”

“Doesn’t it?” Varric asked with a grin. “I give everyone nicknames. Like you: you’re Dimples, obviously, because look at that smile.”

“Aw! Thanks!” Teresa replied with a blush and a happy grin that did, in fact, show off a pair of dimples that were the envy of a full quarter of the Inquisition’s members – including Leliana, Josephine, and Cassandra herself.

“I’m just calling it like it is,” Varric demurred, though he grinned back at Teresa. Then he nodded at Raphael. “And you’re Blue, because you swear so often the air practically turns blue when you open your mouth.”

Raphael grinned. “Well, that’s pretty fucking accurate.”

“See?” Varric declared with a laugh. “Ser Ichiro is Spook, because he’s quiet as a ghost and I’d appreciate it if he stopped sneaking up on me from behind.”

Ichiro chuckled, and shrugged. “You just need to keep your ears open, Varric-_san_. Solas-_san_ doesn’t seem to startle as easily.”

“Yeah, well, betcha Chuckles has some special Fade sense that lets him know when people are coming towards him,” Varric grumbled, but shook his head. “Anyway, where was I? Ah, right. So: Lady Lydia is Glyph, because I’ve seen the secret codes she’s been putting together and I can’t make heads or tails of any of it except that it looks like a _lot_ of complicated symbols.”

Lydia laughed. “It’s just algorithms, Varric: math.”

“Yeah? I’m a member of the Merchant’s Guild, and I’ve seen some mighty creative math when people try to hide that they’ve been cooking the books. They’ve got _nothing_ on whatever it is you’re doing.”

Lydia snickered, and conceded with a shrug. Varric continued: “Now then: Ser Edward is Boomstick, firstly because he’s tall and lanky even for a human, and secondly because I’ve seen the things he’s put together in Adan’s workshop, and I don’t know if I want me some of that, or if I want to stay far, far away.”

Edward smiled, and for some odd reason Cassandra found it unnerving. “I will take that as a compliment.” He glanced at Teresa. “It _is_ a compliment, yes?” At Teresa’s affirming nod, Edward nodded to himself, and had once more fixed that strange, unnerving smile on his face.

“What _have_ you been putting together?” Lydia asked curiously, turning to look at the blond man.

“I have been trying to replicate Greek fire.”

All the otherworlders stared.

“Never took you for a pyromaniac,” Teresa murmured, eyeing Edward as if he’d just revealed a facet of his personality that had previously been unknown, or gone unnoticed.

Edward shrugged. “Alchemist Adan commented once that he would much rather be creating bombs and grenades, instead of compounding healing potions. I suggested we work on a project together. He told me about something called ‘Antivan Fire’, and in the absence of a recipe we’ve taken to experimenting. Supposedly Antivan Fire does not ignite on contact with water, but I fully intend to rectify that.”

“Now you see why I call him Boomstick?” Varric asked of the group. “And last but very much _not_ least is Lady Elinor, who I call Gimlet, because she’s the only healer I know who can punch right through all a patient’s bullshit and then promptly tie them to their bed so they’ll do as she says.”

“That is a terrible nickname!” Cassandra protested. “And Lady Elinor will not tie her patients to a bed if they don’t listen to her.”

Raphael barked a laugh, while everyone else either coughed or looked away in amusement.

Cassandra stared at them all. “Don’t tell me—”

“I’ve tied people to beds before, Lady Seeker,” Elinor said, with a placid smile on her face that showed Cassandra she not only admitted to the accusation, but also was entirely comfortable with it. “Usually because the patient is being a stubborn arse who thinks he can redefine the phrase ‘complete bed rest’ in ways that _do not_ conform to what the words mean. Am I not correct, Ichi?”

Ichiro smiled wryly, an expression Cassandra was beginning to recognize was a defense to protect himself from Elinor’s teasing, but still sharp, remarks. “It was just the one time, Elinor-_san_.”

“That ‘one time’ was when your torso was shredded by shrapnel from a grenade and you nearly died from sepsis, yet you kept on insisting on getting up to train.” Elinor raised an eyebrow at Ichiro. “Tying you down was the only logical solution.”

Varric laughed aloud, and gestured to Elinor. “See that, Seeker? That look? _That’s_ why I call her Gimlet.”

Cassandra groaned in irritation, but James chuckled, and patted her on the arm absently. “It’s okay,” he murmured to her, so that Varric didn’t hear. “Varric means well. And besides, he’s right about Elie.”

Cassandra glanced at him, skeptical, but when she saw the merry twinkle in James’ dark eyes, she relaxed a fraction and nodded. “If you say so. I just worry that he will insult you, or your friends.”

“That’s the last thing you need to worry about,” James assured. “I think it is pretty clear Varric’s just doing this for fun. He doesn't mean any harm by it.”

“You are sure?”

“Oh yeah, I’m very sure.” At that, James patted her arm again, and Cassandra had to fight down the thrill she felt at the contact. It was a friendly, unconscious gesture, done because the doer was comfortable with the one being touched.

For a brief moment, Cassandra wondered what it would be like to be loved by this heroic, handsome man who had the strength of will to break away from the corruption of his country, despite the personal pain it caused him and the dishonor on his family’s tradition of abiding by and upholding the law. She wondered what it would be like to have all that dedication focused on her – perhaps not to the exclusion of everything else, but to have a share in it, to be a part of the better world he wished to create. To be the _reason_ for creating it.

She was being silly, Cassandra told herself with a mental shake of the head. Between their leadership roles in the Inquisition as well as the uncertain future ahead of them thanks to the Breach, to say nothing of the many differences in their backgrounds and experiences – it was impossible. There could be nothing between them, no matter how she might wish it otherwise.

But then she glanced at James, who was now smiling and laughing at something Varric had said, and a small hope kindled in her heart. She would not fan its flame, but surely it did not hurt to keep it lit? Only time would tell.

\-----

_Songbird,_

_I found your family. I shit you not, because this is way too important to joke about – _I found your family_: your sister, your cousin, and those crazy friends you say you used to work with. They fell out of a rift and are here now for Maker knows what reason. Maybe to help with the Breach, but fuck if I know how that’s connected because _you’re_ here, and the Breach didn’t exist ten years ago._

_I don’t know when this’ll get to you, but as soon as you read this, you and Broody better pack your bags and get down here to Haven. Crossing the Marches can be dangerous but you being you, and Broody being Broody, I’m sure you’ll mostly be okay when you get to Kirkwall. Besides, I’m sure Choir Boy’ll send an escort with you. You _are_ still in Choir Boy’s neck of the woods, right? Either way, send me a letter when you know whether you’re coming in via Amaranthine or Highever, and I’ll make sure people are there to guide you the rest of the way here. _

_Your sister really misses you. They all miss you. And frankly, so do I. Not as much as them, obviously, but still._

_Yours,  
_ _V._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRANSLATIONS:
> 
> Labyu cuz – Filipino for “Love you cuz.” In everyday speech it’s common practice to bastardize English words by pronouncing them according to Filipino language rules; if it happens often enough, the bastardized version is absorbed into the everyday lexicon. Labyu is a good example of this.
> 
> Tse – Filipino; a dismissive sound, functions like “whatever” or “whatevs” in English. It can be especially cutting or mildly teasing, depending on the tone and context when it’s used. Sometimes spelled “che”.


	6. To-may-toe, To-mah-toe

“The Hinterlands?”

“Yes,” Maxwell replied, nodding at James. “Now that Leliana and the others have taken everything in hand, and you yourselves are finally settled in to everyone’s satisfaction, I think it’s time I went out there and tried to do something more constructive.”

Such action was long overdue, as far as Maxwell was concerned. Earlier that day he met with Cassandra, Leliana, Josephine and Cullen in the War Room to discuss their first course of action, now that the Inquisition was truly up and running. One thing was clear: the Inquisition needed the backing of either the mages or the Templars for assistance in closing the Breach since they could no longer count on the Chantry to help them do the same (no thanks, of course, to Chancellor Roderick). No one, Maxwell least of all, had forgotten what happened the first time he had tried to close the Breach all by his non-mage self, and no one wanted to repeat that incident – Maxwell least of all. 

On that point, his advisors were divided. Leliana wanted to go to the mages for help, whereas Cullen strongly believed the Templars were the better option. Cassandra agreed with Leliana, stating that pouring magic into the mark on Maxwell’s hand was the best option they had for closing the Breach. To that, Cullen replied that adding more magic could potentially lead to disaster, insisting that closing the Breach would need a _ suppression _ of magic, not the opposite. Leliana disagreed, but Cullen pressed his point.

Only Josephine stated the obvious and most immediate problem: they could approach neither side until they could get the Chantry to end, or at least relax, their denouncement of the Inquisition because of their support for the “Herald of Andraste” (Maxwell, who was now declared a heretic, again no thanks to Chancellor Roderick). Leliana then suggested that Maxwell go to the Crossroads in the Hinterlands, and find Mother Giselle, who supposedly had a list of names of various Chantry clergy whom Leliana could convince (by various means Maxwell did _not_ want to think about, but hoped did not involve assassination) to break the Chantry’s united front against the Herald and the Inquisition. Cullen and Josephine also suggested that Maxwell look for opportunities to expand the Inquisition’s influence, as well as hire agents to extend their reach beyond Haven.

But before Maxwell could even set foot out of Haven, they needed to prepare. And that meant sending out a party of scouts and spies to gather information and prepare a camp where Maxwell and whomever else he took with him would be able to rendezvous and prepare for whatever lay ahead. And while Maxwell knew that Leliana would be sending her own team of scouts, he decided that it might be a good idea to approach James, and see what he and his companions could offer.

Which was why he was here now, on the edge of the training field, talking to James while he was taking a breather from training.

“What do you want us to do, exactly?” James asked as he moved to the side of the training field, putting away his practice sword and shield before grabbing a piece of cloth that was draped on the arm of a nearby training dummy, and using that to wipe the sweat off his face and neck.

“I was wondering if you would be amenable to joining Leliana’s scouts in the forward party,” Maxwell replied. “It’s not that I do not trust them, or Leliana, but I would like to have a second opinion on what’s out there from people whose judgments are unclouded by any allegiances to the Chantry, the mages, or the Templars.”

James’ brows relaxed in understanding. “Ah, I see. Yeah, I totally get your reasons.” He tilted his head. “Does Sister Nightingale know you plan to do this?”

“Not yet. I thought to ask you first, before going to her.” Maxwell smiled. “I did not want to go to her and then have her issue you the order. You are part of the Inquisition, yes, but your people are still yours. It would not do for me to go above your head, so to speak.”

James grinned at that. “That's nice of you. Thanks.” He sighed. “It’s been a while since I had to answer to anybody. I know you people are different from the leaders I used to answer to, but still: burned once and all that. It’s good of you to come to me first before going to Sister Nightingale.

“So: you want us to join the scouting parties. Do you need anything specific? Like, is there a goal or goals you want accomplished?”

“I want information,” Maxwell replied promptly. “Right now the Hinterlands are being torn apart by the rebel mages and Templars. Their fighting seems thickest and most violent in that particular region, and they are making life difficult for both the residents of the area and the refugees fleeing the conflict. I have no idea where the Seekers and the Templars are, but I do know that the mages are in Redcliffe Village, since the King of Ferelden granted them refuge there. I want to know what’s happening with them.”

James nodded knowingly. “You want people on the inside. An infiltration job.”

“Yes, exactly! Is that something you can do?”

“We’d need to arrange a few things, and we’d need details, but yeah, it’s something we can do.”

Maxwell beamed. “Excellent. I shall go and speak to Sister Leliana about this now. Hopefully it will not take too long to get everything in order.”

Maxwell did just that, and after the midday meal he was called again to a meeting with Leliana and the otherworlders in the War Room.

“The Herald has informed me that you are willing to infiltrate Redcliffe Village,” Leliana stated, eyeing them all with a cool, assessing look. “I will admit, I’ve been considering sending agents there to find out what is going on, but the agents I _would_ consider sending are too ideologically invested in the Mage-Templar War, whether they admit it or not. The Herald’s suggestion is most timely.

“Now, while I find the suggestion rather appealing, I would like to know what your plan is. You’ve said that you used to do this in your world, so I would like to know how you would go about something like this.”

Maxwell watched as James glanced at his friends, before he turned to Leliana, and replied: “Well, first of all we’d divide our roles. For an infiltration job I normally send Tessa, Ichiro, and Edward undercover. They’re the best actors, the best at gathering information, and can sneak out if they need to make a getaway. The rest of us will be camped somewhere nearby, ready and waiting to get our inside people out if the whole situation goes FUBAR.”

Maxwell blinked. “FUBAR?”

“Fucked Up Beyond Any Repair,” Raphael replied, grinning widely even as James blushed and coughed at the other man’s casual cursing. “It’s a phrase we use to describe a situation that’s gone to utter shit and all potential solutions result in someone or something getting irrevocably fucked over. Usually not us. _Preferably_ not us.”

James rolled his eyes. “Thanks for that Rafe.”

“You’re welcome, bossman.”

“Anyway,” James continued with a huff, “since you don’t have wireless communication technology same as we do in our world, we’ll have to set up a dead-drop somewhere outside of Redcliffe, so that our people on the inside can leave us messages and reports. They’ll all be encrypted of course, just in case someone finds them, but we’ll do our best to make it as inconspicuous as possible.

“But that’s the easy part, because we know how to do those things – _have_ done them, even, back in our world. What I’m worried about is how we’ll get our people undercover without attracting attention, how we’ll get them to fit in convincingly, and how we’ll get them out if we need to. Our lack of knowledge regarding magic – Solas slinging his spells at us notwithstanding – is a serious gap here, and we need to fill at least some of it before we go to Redcliffe.”

Maxwell winced. He had not thought of that when he’d decided this was a wise course of action, but it was a legitimate concern. James and his team had very little understanding of what magic was like – an advantage in some ways, but a serious disadvantage in others. Not least of which was the very obvious problem of getting his “inside people,” as he had called them, to fit into what was, essentially, a mage enclave.

Leliana was silent, her lips pursed and eyes narrowed slightly in contemplation. She said nothing for a long while, merely stood there with one arm crossed over her torso to prop up the elbow of the other, so she could tap one gloved finger against the side of her mouth in thought.

At length, she spoke: “That is not quite correct. Your lack of knowledge regarding magic can be worked around relatively easily. After all, you need not be mages to want to enter Redcliffe: just associated with them in some way, and therefore a target for Templars. Your biggest problem will be convincing those in Redcliffe of your identities. You will need good backstories to sell to the mages in Redcliffe – something they will find immediately sympathetic, so they will let you in with few questions. Ideally it will be so sympathetic that it will let you speak to Grand Enchanter Fiona, get you into her inner circle quickly, but that need not be the case.”

James nodded. “That would be ideal, yeah. But we’re not familiar enough with the history of this world; Tessa and Ly have barely made a dent on the chantry library, since they’re not in there all day, every day.”

“Not that they should be,” Elinor cut in then. “It’s not good for their health, physical and mental.”

James nodded. “Exactly. So: you’re going to have to give us a cover story, Sister Nightingale, because right now, we got nothing.”

Again, Leliana fell silent, but not so long this time, because after a moment, she glanced up, her eyes bright, but hard. “Dairsmuid Circle.”

James frowned. “What?”

But Maxwell knew where Leliana was going. “The Annulment of the Dairsmuid Circle,” he murmured, eyes wide. “It would generate sympathy indeed, if that’s the story they go with.”

“Wait a sec,” Teresa cut in then. “I know more or less what a Circle is, and I think I know where Dairsmuid is – Rivain, right? -” and at Maxwell's nod, she continued, “but what’s that got to do with our cover story?"

“The Dairsmuid Circle and the community around it was Annulled last year,” Maxwell replied. At the otherworlders’ blank looks, he explained: “Everyone who was associated with the Dairsmuid Circle was put to the sword – whether they had magic or not.”

“It did not matter if they were innocent or guilty,” Leliana added, her voice gone so cold and sharp it made Maxwell look at her, because he had never, _ever_ heard her sound so angry before now. “Their association with the Circle was enough for them to be murdered. Hundreds of people died: men, women, children – the Seekers and Templars spared _no one._ It was not simply an execution. It was a _massacre_.”

Maxwell saw the shock on James’ face, a shock that was echoed on the faces of his friends except for Edward.

“Holy Jesusfuck,” Raphael breathed. “That’s a _ thing _ here?”

“And their only crime,” Lydia whispered, “their _ only crime _ , if it could even be called that, was that of _ association _?”

Maxwell nodded sadly. He’d been stunned by the report when he’d first heard it over the dinner table at his family home, suddenly dreading the possibility that, in such uncertain times, the Right would be invoked at the Ostwick Circle and his sister would be killed – and then so would his family, simply for being related to a mage. Realistically he knew it would not happen, since the Trevelyans were known for their piety, and they had kin in all levels of the Chantry who would gladly speak up in their defense (if for no other reason than that shame on one branch would easily tar the rest of them), but it was still a possibility, even if it was remote.

He explained: “In general the Right is invoked only during extreme circumstances, and usually it does not include the civilians who work in and around the Circle or who are associated with it via family ties: just the mages and Templars therein. But in the case of the Dairsmuid Circle, the Seekers found the entire community complicit, civilians and relations included, because they permitted the Circle to train some of the mages as seers.”

“Seers?”

“Female mages who communicate with spirits, whom they ask for guidance on various issues,” Leliana replied, her tone still icy with contained rage. “And all without incident, it must be noted, since there are no reports of an abomination ever causing devastation in Rivain’s history. But, no: the Seekers saw it as a crime, so they invoked the Right and called in Templars to assist. Perhaps there might have been cause to kill the mages of the Circle itself, but they did not stop there, since they perceived the entire community as complicit. So they murdered everyone else, too. And all because the Rivainis wished to continue a tradition that had been with them for thousands of years, and which they practiced with little to no harm.”

The otherworlders stared, stunned.

“A pogrom,” Elinor murmured, her voice strangled in horror. “A bloody _ pogrom _ . The mages aren’t Jews, but _ still _.”

“To-may-toe, to-mah-toe,” James growled, brow furrowed in a thunderous scowl. “A pogrom is a pogrom is a _fucking pogrom_.”

The air in the War Room practically vibrated with their collective rage, and while Maxwell understood where that rage came from, he was also puzzled. From what he had learned from these otherworlders and from Josephine, atrocities were nothing new to them. Indeed, they had come together as a group to fight such atrocities outside the confines of the law. “Do you…not have these things in your world?” he asked tentatively. “Do such things not occur?”

It was Teresa who shook her head, who looked at him with a gaze both bleak and enraged. “They still do,” she replied. “But we don’t condone them, no matter who’s doing the massacring. And we try our best to _keep_ them from happening, because they’re fucking _wrong_.”

Maxwell flinched at the venom in her tone. If he did not know any better, he would have thought she was accusing him, personally, of what happened to the Dairsmuid Circle. But he _did_ know better. She was not accusing him: she was accusing something else, something greater. She was accusing the Chantry, and Thedas as a whole, for permitting such a thing as the Right of Annulment to exist in the first place.

Not for the first time, a small part of him – the part that he’d studiously kept hidden from his pious family – was glad to see the rage and the anger, glad to see that these people saw clearly what was right and what was wrong, their morals and ethics unfiltered by any prejudice inherited from kin, country, or Chantry.

“This is pointless.”

Maxwell looked at Edward, who was staring at them all with an impassive expression on his face.

“This isn’t about the Dairsmuid Circle and what happened to it,” he stated. “That happened last year, as the Herald mentioned. It’s history: done and over with. Getting angry over it now is wasting time and energy on something we can do nothing about.”

That reproof was enough to snap the otherworlders (and Maxwell too, truth be told) out of their maudlin moods.

James inhaled loudly, and nodded. “Right. Edward’s right.” He closed his eyes, clearly attempting to master his feelings, and when he looked at Leliana again he had his temper under control – well, mostly: Maxwell could still see the way his hands were clenched at his sides.

“So,” he said, his voice remarkably even. “How’s the Dairsmuid Circle atrocity going to help us get our inside people into Redcliffe?”

Maxwell did not miss the way Leliana’s lips twitched in appreciation at the way James had labeled the Annulment an atrocity, but her expression remained otherwise unchanged. “Your inside people, as you call them, will pose as survivors from the incident. None of the mages would have survived it, but it is possible for some of the civilians to have done so. If you say that you normally send Lady Teresa, Ser Ichiro, and Ser Edward, then Lady Teresa can pose as a relative of one of the mages, who then escaped before she was slain by the Seekers and Templars. Ser Edward, for his part, can play the role of a visiting alchemist from the Free Marches, looking to purchase some of the rarer ingredients the Circle had access to, and perhaps to look into their library for research. Like Lady Teresa, he escaped the subsequent massacre – perhaps even did so in her company. Ser Ichiro can pose as their bodyguard: someone they hired in Seheron when they fled there in their escape.”

She paused, then glanced at Teresa. “The only problem with this is that you will have to know how to speak Rivaini.”

Teresa nodded. “I can manage that, if I have to. I’m a quick study with languages – or mimicking them, at least.” She paused, then frowned. “What _ does _ Rivaini sound like, anyway?”

“_El rivaini suena así.”_

At that, all the otherworlders sat up straight. “That— That’s Spanish,” Teresa stated. “I _ understood _ that.”

Leliana’s eyes narrowed. _ “¿Sabes rivaini?” _

_“Puedo leerlo y hablarlo,” _Teresa replied, her accent and cadence almost a twin for Josephine’s when Maxwell had last heard her speaking Rivaini with a messenger,_ “pero me es más fácil leerlo que hablarlo.”_

“_ Parli antivano _?”

Now Teresa was grinning. “_ Lo parlo con meno scioltezza che il rivaini, posso farcela. _”

There was a gleam in Leliana’s eyes now._ “Tu parles orlésian?”_

Now Teresa frowned. “Oh crap, uh… _ Je parle orlésian…un peu?” _She shook her head, then glanced at Elinor. “Elie’s the one who can speak it.”

At Leliana’s glance, Elinor nodded, and replied: “_ Je parle comme l’écolière, mais avec pratique, j’améliorerai.” _

“You can practice with me, then,” Leliana said, and Maxwell noticed how her accent had become slightly thicker than it had been before she’d started speaking Orlesian. She turned to Teresa with a smile. “This is a very good thing to know, Lady Teresa – not least because it will help in getting you undercover at Redcliffe. Can you sustain a Rivaini accent, even while speaking Common?”

“I’d have to work at it a while, but I can sustain it.”

“Excellent. Then the cover story I described earlier should suffice to get you into Redcliffe.” She looked back at James. “And the rest of your team will be camped just outside?”

“As close as we can possibly get without drawing attention,” James replied. “We’d set up a secret entry-exit point near the village, somewhere out of sight, and camp there. The message dead-drop would preferably be located nearby too, for easy access.”

“The woods near Redcliffe would be ideal. I will assign a few scouts to help you find a good location.” Leliana paused a moment, then nodded to herself as if coming to a decision. “If this is all agreeable, then I find no reason not to let you do as you plan. Lady Lydia, I am glad to say that I am close to mastering the field cipher you have created for the use of my agents and myself, so I would be gratified if you used it as well to keep me updated on this matter. I will lend you one of my ravens for this purpose.”

Lydia’s expression grew wary. “As long as it’s not Baron Plucky. I swear that raven hates everyone except you.”

Leliana’s laughter broke the last of the tension that had settled in the room, making them all relax. “Baron Plucky will remain with me. But I can spare Lady Bright-Eyes. A small treat occasionally will keep her temper sweet, as long as you make her work for it. I cannot have my birds becoming fat and lazy.”

At that, the meeting broke up, and they started drifting out the door. Maxwell fell in step beside Teresa, who was the last to shuffle out of the room. She had a look on her face that said she was caught up in her thoughts.

“A copper for your thoughts, Lady Teresa?” Maxwell asked gently, causing the woman to jerk as she startled, and then looked at him, dark eyes blinking before her expression relaxed.

“You’ll need a lot of coppers then,” she said, a dimple winking in one cheek as she smiled wryly back at him. More than a few people had commented in his hearing on those dimples, and Maxwell had to admit, they were a very charming feature. “I’ve got a lot of thoughts.”

Maxwell nodded. “I imagine you do.” He inhaled, then added: “I would like to apologize.”

“For what?”

“For placing a significant burden of this scheme on your shoulders. I know that you aren’t completely comfortable being here in Thedas just yet, and yet this scheme requires you to be just that.”

For a moment, there was silence, and Maxwell wondered if he had said something wrong, had insulted Teresa somehow. But then he felt a touch on his shoulder, and when he glanced up, he found that Teresa had put her hand on his shoulder – tentatively, as if still unsure if he would welcome the contact.

The smile she offered him was smaller than the ones she had seen him flash at her friends, but the warmth in it was undeniable. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for, Ser Maxwell,” she said. “This isn’t the first time I’ve had to go undercover like this, and I trust Sister Nightingale to know what a decent cover story should sound like. If we don’t get in, then we don’t get in: we rejoin the scouts, help out where we can, and meet up with you when you decide you’re ready to come to the Hinterlands. If we _ do _ get in, well… We’ve done this a few times before. It’s not that hard to do it again. Easier, actually; without facial recognition technology or the Internet, no one can do even a half-assed background check and find out we’re not who we say we are.”

Maxwell nodded and smiled to acknowledge the comfort being offered. One thing he had learned about Teresa, specifically, was that she always sought to lighten the burdens of others, or take them away if she could. Very few people were as giving of themselves as she was, and he wished more people were like her.

But he said nothing of that, because his curiosity got the better of him, as it usually did. “What are ‘facial recognition technology’ and ‘the Internet’?”

Teresa blinked, and then laughed, a cheery sound that lightened the last of the guilt in Maxwell’s chest. Her hand on his shoulder gripped him a bit more firmly, squeezing before she let go and shrugged. “Ly and I could try to explain the former to you over dinner, but the latter? Hooboy. It’d take _ weeks _ to explain _ that _ monstrosity.”

“Which we do not have,” Maxwell lamented.

“Sadly.” She tilted her head, and the impish twinkle in her eye made her look much younger than she really was – which was interesting, as she already looked younger than the thirty years she claimed for her age, with her tip-tilted nose and somewhat rounded cheeks. Maxwell had no idea how she could achieve such a thing. “But we could tell you in installments. Ly and I could get you started, then we could explain over time what it is. As long as you don’t get distracted by other questions.”

Maxwell chuckled ruefully. “That will be difficult. Asking too many questions has always been, erm, a fault of mine.”

“Curiosity’s _ never _ a fault,” Teresa stated confidently. “Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back, as they say.”

“Why is that?”

“Huh?”

“Why does curiosity kill a cat? And why do you say that satisfaction brings it back? And why a _cat_?”

Teresa stared at him, and Maxwell, realizing what had just happened, instantly felt a hot flush rise to his cheeks. His parents had said the first word he’d spoken when he was a child was “Why?”, and it appeared he had not quite let go of the habit of questioning everything – even during inopportune moments.

He groaned, and clapped a hand to his face in embarrassment. “Maker damn me, not _ again _.”

The laughter that spilled out of Teresa was bright and delighted, and of such a quality as to cause others in the Chantry to turn and look and smile themselves. It even reached through Maxwell’s consternation, causing him to drop his hand and smile tentatively at her.

“Don’t worry about it,” she soothed, still giggling. She patted him again, but it was firmer, more confident. “See, it’s like this: cats are pretty curious creatures, right? But that curiosity can get dangerous for them if they poke their snoots and paws into something they shouldn’t, so…”

Maxwell listened to Teresa explain the reasoning behind the proverb, watching as her hands moved in quick gestures to emphasize something she was saying. Soon enough they were joined by Lydia, and some time later Maxwell found himself seated between the two women by the warmth of the hearth in the Singing Maiden, drinking a mug of ale and occasionally eating from a bowl of druffalo stew as questions poured from him in a near-endless stream. Wonder of wonders, neither woman asked him to stop, instead responding to him as best as they could, each answer leading to a fresh set of questions as Maxwell indulged his curiosity in full.

Gradually, the table became more crowded: first Edward joined them, then Ichiro, then Elinor and Raphael, and lastly James, who did not contribute to the conversation except to occasionally offer a correction or to laugh at a witty response – or something Elinor would snap in reproof at her husband or someone else. Still, the big, dark man spent his silence smiling, watching his friends with the kind of quiet pride and enjoyment that came from long familiarity and implicit trust.

Not for the first time, Maxwell felt the weight of responsibility crush his shoulders just a little bit more. In the month since they arrived Maxwell had grown to like these otherworlders, despite their abrupt arrival and strange origins. It was too early yet in their acquaintance to call them friends, but he felt certain that, given time, that was what they would be to him, and he, Maxwell Trevelyan of Ostwick, would be able to sit with these otherworlders and be as welcome in their midst as one of their own.

And yet here he was, sending them to their potential doom – never mind that they were technically going into it with full knowledge of that possibility, since they _ had _ accepted the mission to spy in Redcliffe. But the fact remained that it was _ he _ who had put the suggestion to them, and it was in _ his _ name that they were doing this at all. He wished there was something better, some alternative that did not require people he liked putting themselves in danger.

Idealism and optimism, all wrapped up in one unassuming boy-child: that was Maxwell Trevelyan. It had always been one of his flaws. It was _still_ one of his flaws, though he had long since learned to keep his tendencies in check and to always try to be realistic. Still, he wished it did not have to be that way, that he could do something to really _change_ Thedas into something better than it was right that moment.

And in order to do that, he knew he had to set aside his idealism, though not necessarily his optimism. Be realistic, Max, he reminded himself. Any information gathered at Redcliffe could be used to their advantage, either to help end the Mage-Templar War or to bargain with the mages to help the Inquisition – or both. He had no doubt that between Josephine and Leliana they would be able to achieve both with just the right information, as would Maxwell himself once he had it.

“Copper for your thoughts?”

Maxwell blinked, and glanced up at Teresa. Her dark eyes watched him inquiringly, perhaps noticing that he had gone quiet, that the stream of his questions had been dammed.

And since he did not want her to worry, he smiled, and replied: “A whole bagful – but in the best way possible.”

He was glad he did not have to lie when he said that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRANSLATIONS:
> 
> Acknowledgements to Gian for the French phrases, and Guil for the Spanish and Italian phrases, as well as offering more suggestions for the French phrases.
> 
> El rivaini suena así. – Spanish; “Rivaini sounds like this.”
> 
> ¿Sabes rivaini? – Spanish; “Can you speak Rivaini?”
> 
> Puedo leerlo y hablarlo, … pero me es más fácil leerlo que hablarlo. – Spanish; “I can read and speak it, but I read it slightly better than I speak it.”
> 
> Parli antivano? – Italian; “Can you speak Antivan?”
> 
> Lo parlo con meno scioltezza che il rivaini, posso farcela. – Italian; “My Antivan is not as fluent as my Rivaini, but I can manage well enough.”
> 
> Tu parles orlésian? – French; “Can you speak Orlesian?”
> 
> Je parle orlésian…un peu? – French; “I can speak Orlesian…a little?”
> 
> Je parle comme l’écolière, mais avec pratique, j’améliorerai. – French; “I speak like a schoolgirl, but with practice I will improve.”
> 
> NOTES: There has been some discussion online about which real-world languages apply to various in-game locations (where they are not so clear-cut as in the case of Orlais). For my personal ease of use while writing this story, I’ve decided on the following selections:
> 
> Common – English  
Fereldan – Welsh  
Orlesian – French  
Antivan – Italian  
Rivaini – Spanish  
Old Tevene – Latin
> 
> Regarding the extent of the destruction connected with the Annulment of the Dairsmuid Circle, as I've described here: I'm not certain if the Templars and Seekers just destroyed the Circle or included the surrounding community for allowing the mages so much freedom. I've tried to check online, but apart from a Codex entry on the matter there's no clear information on it. Thus, I've chosen to extrapolate that, given the events in Kirkwall, the Seekers and the Templars would likely have overstepped their bounds in executing the Annulment.


	7. Under the (Metaphorical) Radar

The Hinterlands were beautiful: fertile valleys tucked between towering cliffs, dotted with shining lakes that stretched out into lovely streams and rivers, watering the vales. It was warmer too, compared to Haven, the air filled with the fragrance of flowers blooming on practically every bit of flora Teresa passed. At any other time, she would have been completely all right with wandering around, taking in the sights, soaking up the warmth like the lizard person James sometimes teased her as.

The only things that spoiled her appreciation of the area were the burning villages, and the apostates and Templars trying to kill each other on the only godsdamned stretch of decent road that cut across the region.

She wasn’t a stranger to living rough. Many of the missions the team had gone on over the years often involved cutting through inhospitable terrain in order to get to a destination, and then camping in said terrain over a certain period of time in order to gather intel to make proper decisions before finally closing in or leaving altogether. They’d even had to endure a few warzones.

But that familiarity didn’t make crossing the Hinterlands any easier.

Fortunately, the scouts Leliana sent with the team to find a place to set up their hidden camp seemed to know the terrain well: most notably, a dwarf who’d introduced herself as Scout Harding. On first meeting her, Teresa thought her too sweet to be one of Leliana’s agents – until she saw Harding shoot down a bunch of Templars and apostates with the cold efficiency of a hardened sniper. And when it was done, she’d turned around and given them all a sunny smile, reassuring them that all was well and they could continue once the other scouts had checked the bodies over for information and supplies.

In that moment, Harding was upgraded from “Adorable” to “Adorable Fucking Badass,” to quote Raphael. Teresa agreed wholeheartedly with the assessment.

It was said Adorable Fucking Badass who was at the head of their group, leading them along a hunting trail that had not seen use in a while, if the overgrowth was any indication.

“Not that that’s any surprise,” she’d remarked casually as Teresa ducked a low-hanging branch. “Circle mages aren’t exactly known for their hunting skills.”

“So how are they feeding themselves?” Elinor asked, forced to push aside the branch Teresa had been short enough to duck, and that Scout Harding, in her turn, had been short enough to ignore completely.

“Boats come in with supplies via the lake, most of them sent down from Denerim courtesy of the King of Ferelden. He was the one who opened Redcliffe to the mages in the first place, so he’s keeping them supplied as best he can.”

“There will be boats in Redcliffe Village then?” Ichiro inquired.

“Likely. Why?”

“It would be good to have another escape route.”

“Oh. Well, you _ could _ do that, but I wouldn’t recommend it. The weather’s been unpredictable lately, and if it gets too foul your boat could capsize. The bottom’s littered with the bodies of the foolhardy, so my mother used to tell me.”

“And the water will likely be cold,” Elinor stated. “We don’t need anyone getting hypothermia now, do we, Ichi?”

“No, Elinor-_san_, not at all.”

Teresa snickered, and was about to throw in a comment of her own, but she noticed then that Harding had picked up her pace, making for what looked like a spot where the trees thinned and let the sunlight through. Teresa picked up her own pace as well, following behind the dwarf until she reached the edge of the tree line, and stepped into a small clearing near the edge of a cliff. Through a line of saplings that grew along the cliff edge, she could see Redcliffe Village, and beyond that, the hazy outline of Redcliffe Castle.

Someone made an appreciative whistling sound, and Teresa turned just in time to see Raphael step through into the clearing, the others just behind him. He was looking around, taking the space in and nodding in approval.

“Really nice place here.” He approached Teresa, going slightly past her to press between the saplings so he could get a look over the lip of the cliff. “And it’s a straight drop down into the village.”

“Really?” Teresa followed him, careful to keep herself hidden in the trees, and looked down. As Raphael said, there was a sheer drop down the side of the cliff into what appeared to be a quieter section of Redcliffe Village, the cliff face screened by trees.

She glanced at her cousin, and nodded. The cliff face would make the perfect emergency entry-exit point to and from the village.

“So! Is it what you need?”

Teresa looked at Harding, who was watching her with an eager look on her face. Teresa nodded, and grinned back at the dwarf. “This is perfect, Scout Harding. Thanks.”

Harding blushed. “Just glad I could help.”

James took Harding aside then, likely to make arrangements for things like supplies and contact points and schedules. In the meantime, Ichiro had approached Teresa and Raphael, and peered down the cliff, nodding to himself as he contemplated the drop.

“Good for rappelling,” he murmured. He turned and eyed a nearby tree – not a sapling, but one of the older trees a little further into the clearing, its roots dug deep into the soil and stone. His eyes narrowed in assessment. “We could tie the ropes off there, and at a given signal the others could kick them down and we could climb up – or they could climb down to get to us.”

Teresa nodded in agreement. “And the trees will help hide us too.”

“Yes.” He glanced back down the cliff, then at Teresa. “If we get in, try to negotiate us some living space as close to this cliff face as possible. I can see a few huts and cabins down there; if they are unoccupied, we could use them.”

“Understood.”

James called them over then, and as they all gathered in the center of the clearing they went over the details of the plan one more time, reminding each other of their roles and what they would do in case of certain events occurring – up to and including making what Raphael called an Action Hero Exit: everything on fire and exploding behind them as they coolly walked away from the destruction.

“But we should all try to avoid that outcome as much as possible,” James reminded them, glaring at a snickering Raphael. “I don’t think I need to remind you the people down there can explode our asses _with their minds_ if we try to burn the village down.”

“Didn’t that happen already?” Raphael drawled. “I still remember the chili we had at that festival in St. Louis. The one with the Carolina Reapers? ‘Burnination’ and ‘oh Lord have mercy’ doesn’t even _ begin _ to fucking cover it.”

Everyone except Harding and Edward groaned. “_Rafe _!”

“What?” Raphael asked, returning their annoyed glares with an impish grin. “Just speaking the truth here.”

“… I don’t think I want to know,” Harding murmured, shaking her head. She glanced at the clearing around them, then turned to James. “If you’d like, I can help you set up your camp, and then I can escort Lady Teresa, Ser Ichiro, and Ser Edward to the drop-off point so they can get into the village.”

James shook his head. “Thanks, Scout Harding, but we’ll set ourselves up here on our own. Better you get our inside people to Redcliffe while there’s still daylight.” He glanced at his team, once again in charge. “Haul ass, people. Tessa, Ichi, Edward: get prepped and ready to go in ten. You know your cover stories, so I trust you to use them and use them well. Everyone else, start setting up camp. Soon as that’s done set up a screen so no one can see the fire once it’s lit.”

With a chorus of “Yessirs” and Ichiro’s lone “_Ryokai_,” they were off on another op – just like old times.

\-----

The past, so Connor Guerrin had been told, loudly and repeatedly, was the past. There was nothing he could do to change it, since there was no magic on the face of Thedas that could allow him to do so. He had read some papers while he was in Tevinter that suggested the possibility, but it was all theoretical: nothing practical to make the idea cross over into reality. One would have to be a god, or something close to one, in order to alter something so fundamental to the world.

No, he thought, following behind Grand Enchanter Fiona as they walked down the bridge connecting Redcliffe Castle to the village, there was no point wishing he could change the past. But that did not stop guilt from crushing him every time he stepped out into Redcliffe Village: the same village that he had nearly destroyed when he was a boy. And though everything had turned out all right in the end, thanks in no small part to Her Majesty the Hero of Ferelden, he was still painfully conscious of what he had done to this own people. He had been eternally grateful when his father had finally sent him to the Circle, as his mother ought to—

Don’t think of that, Connor scolded himself, the thought pattern so familiar that it was practically automatic. His mother was only trying to protect him, afraid that sending him to the Circle was a death sentence. But she had seen reason, in the end, and though she had been somber and sad when he’d crossed the lake to Kinloch Hold, she finally understood that this was what she should have done in the first place.

At the Circle, Connor found his place in life, and in the world. Though he missed his family (there was many a time when he’d stared across the lake to Redcliffe, the castle nothing more than a gray smudge on the horizon even on the clearest day), the Circle gave him education, guidance, and after his Harrowing, helped him find his purpose. His experience with the desire demon and his deepest wish to never repeat that fiasco again had led him to studying the Fade, and his interest was noted enough that he was sent all the way to Tevinter to learn more. The day he returned to Kinloch Hold from that trip, he was greeted with proud smiles and prouder words from the senior mages, and even a few respectful nods from some of the Templars. That same day, he was formally promoted to Junior Enchanter in recognition of his hard work. It was one of the greatest days of his life.

And then the Kirkwall Chantry exploded, and his world began falling apart.

Just ahead of him he heard Fiona talking to one of the Fereldan soldiers who guarded the gate of Redcliffe Village.

“…are they?”

“In the Gull and Lantern, Grand Enchanter,” the soldier replied, nodding her head towards the tavern in the heart of the village. “I set them up with a warm meal. Poor sods looked like they’d been traveling on nothing but their wits for days.”

“That was kind of you,” Fiona said, her voice low and warm with approval. “They have come a very long way indeed.” She glanced over her shoulder at Connor, and offered him a comforting smile.

“You do not have to come with me for this,” she murmured to him. “You can still go back to the castle if you would rather not be there to talk to them. I remember how troubled you were, when last we talked about Dairsmuid.”

Connor managed a smile at the older woman, and shook his head. “That’s why I came with you, Grand Enchanter: because I was troubled. If they are who they say they are, then I can think of none more worthy of compassion and welcome.”

Fiona’s smile widened, and she patted him gently on the arm. “You are a kind young man, Connor. If only there were more like you in the world.”

As Fiona continued on her way to the Gull and Lantern, Connor followed her, but his mind was lost in memories of the moment when he’d first learned about the Annulment of the Dairsmuid Circle. It had been at Andoral’s Reach, where the College of Enchanters had gathered in the wake of events at the White Spire to vote on whether they should once again submit to the authority of the Chantry, as the Loyalists wished, or to fight back against the Chantry, as the Libertarians desired. Connor had cast his vote in favor of the Loyalists, but in the end it was the Libertarians who won, the deadlock broken in their favor by Senior Enchanter Rhys of the Aequitarians.

That was when news arrived from Rivain. The Dairsmuid Circle had been annulled, ostensibly for practicing heretical magic – but it was not just the mages and Templars of the Circle who had been executed, as was often the case when the Right of Annulment was invoked. Instead, the Seekers extended the Right to include everyone who was associated with the Circle, whether or not they could do magic. Hundreds of innocents died in Dairsmuid before the Seekers were satisfied: people whose only fault was that they had a relative in the Circle, or worked for the Circle, or even just lived in the Circle’s proximity.

In that moment, as outrage and anguish filled him in equal measure, Connor briefly wished he’d cast his vote for the Libertarians instead. Never mind the mages and Templars, Connor thought; he understood how insidious certain kinds of magic could be, and the Right of Annulment was the cleansing fire that burned out corruption before it spread further than a Circle’s confines. In that, at least, the Seekers had been right to invoke it. But the Right was never meant to be used as an excuse for wholesale slaughter – and yet, in this case, it had been.

It was then that Connor began seeing his Libertarian peers in a new light. He began to understand that he had been immensely lucky: ensconced in a Circle whose Templars were relatively equable and treated mages humanely, and surrounded by peers and superiors who were a little strict but generally kind. Many of his fellow mages had not been as fortunate.

After the news, he began to regret less the Libertarian victory after the vote, and so had gone, if not completely willingly, then at least with a slightly lighter heart, to Redcliffe Village when King Alistair declared that the mages could use it as a refuge. The first few weeks were tense for the mages: the Templars had followed them to Redcliffe, and many, Fiona included, had feared they would batter down the gates and slaughter them all. But that had not happened – largely due to the assistance provided by Arl Teagan Guerrin, who used the formidable defenses of Redcliffe Castle as an additional bulwark against any greater Templar assault. Eventually, the Templars retreated, likely deciding that it was not worth it to throw themselves against one of the most defensible castles in Ferelden, or risk war with the King of said nation, for that matter. Now, they were tied up in fighting against the more warlike apostates who had rejected the safety of Redcliffe in favor of a far more aggressive stance than Fiona herself was comfortable with.

Now that they had a safe haven, Connor intended to stay in the village with the rest of his fellows from Kinloch, but as soon as Teagan learned he was there, he’d been brought up to the castle and given the rooms he had as a boy. The special treatment was more than a little embarrassing, since Connor hardly thought of himself as a scion of House Guerrin anymore, but it was so very hard to refuse his uncle, especially after the older man had embraced him so enthusiastically as soon as he’d stepped through the castle gates, and then eagerly introduced him to his wife Kaitlyn and their children: a seven-year-old girl named Rowan, and a five-year-old boy named Connor.

“Yes, after you,” Teagan said, smiling fondly at Connor’s shocked expression. “We’ve missed you, my boy. In your letters, you always seemed content with your life in the Circle – happy, even - but we’ve still missed you regardless.”

A warm breeze redolent of ale and stew drew Connor back to the present, and he inhaled deeply as he stepped into the Gull and Lantern. Ahead of him, Fiona had paused, speaking in low tones to Clemence, a Tranquil alchemist who was once of the Val Royeaux Circle. Some mages were unnerved by, and therefore disliked, their Tranquil compatriots, but Connor rather liked being around them. He found their perpetually calm demeanor soothing, and their unrivaled focus in research was not only helpful, but rather enviable, too.

Whatever information Clemence had disclosed to Fiona, it must have been what she needed, because after she thanked him she headed towards the stairs that led up to the second floor, which had rooms for rent. It appeared the people Fiona wished to speak with had retired someplace private – which was just as well, Connor supposed. He understood how overwhelming it could be to be the focus of attention of so many people.

Once they reached the second floor, Fiona went to the middle door on the left of the hallway, knocking gently to announce her presence.

From behind the door, Connor heard a hesitant, feminine voice call out: “Wh-who is it?”

“Grand Enchanter Fiona and Junior Enchanter Connor,” Fiona replied. “Are you free to talk?”

“Ah, _ sí _ – I mean, yes. I apologize. Please, hold a moment.” There was a shuffling sound, and a moment later the door opened a crack to reveal the tired face of a woman of indeterminate age, her dark eyes wary and a touch scared.

Fiona must have immediately noted that fear, because her expression became gentler, her voice softer. “Miss Teresa, yes?” she inquired.

The woman nodded mutely, eyeing her for a moment before looking over her shoulder at Connor. Connor offered her a smile as well, responding immediately to the vague sense he got of a small, scared creature that would bolt if it were threatened.

“Please,” he murmured, taking the tone he used when speaking to the children who were brought into the Circle for the first time, “we mean you no harm. You are safe here, we swear.”

She eyed them both a moment longer, before she opened the door wider, and stepped away, granting them access to the room beyond.

“Thank you,” Fiona replied, stepping into the room with Connor right behind her, who shut the door behind him to grant them all privacy.

That done, he turned his attention to the room’s occupants. There were three people, just as they had been informed: two men and a woman, dressed in mismatched, somewhat ill-fitting clothing that gave away their status as refugees. One of the men – a startlingly handsome specimen with angular eyes – was lying on one of the two beds in the room, his torso wrapped in bandages that smelled intensely of some kind of salve. Seated in a chair next to him was a pale, blond man, his eerie blue eyes watching Fiona and Connor with a distant kind of interest.

The moment Fiona saw the injured man on the bed, she stepped forward, concerned. “Why did you not tell anyone your companion was wounded?” she asked, glancing at the woman who had opened the door for them. “There are many mages here who could help you.”

The woman shook her head. “We did not wish to impose,” she replied, and it was only then that Connor realized she was speaking with a Rivaini accent. “We are strangers here, and know no one.”

“Just because you are strangers does not mean you should suffer needlessly.” Fiona turned to the man on the bed. “I have some skill in healing magic. I could help you, if you wish.”

The man stared at Fiona, uncomprehending, and Connor suddenly wondered if the wound was grave enough to have become infected, and if so, had the putrefaction gone so far that it was already causing the man to grow delirious.

The blond man shook his head. “He’s from Seheron,” he explained. “He does not speak Common.”

Connor gaped. The man was clearly not Qunari, and he didn’t look very Tevinter, so that left only one other option. “He’s a Fog Warrior?”

“Was,” the blond stated. “But even though he has renounced that life, he still holds to the tenets of his fellows. He will accept no aid from anyone for as long as he thinks he can bear the burden. It was difficult enough convincing him to let me get as far as bandaging and salving the wound.”

Fiona stared for a moment longer, but at length, she relaxed. “I see. Forgive me for imposing.” She glanced at the woman named Teresa. “If you are feeling up to it, we would be glad for introductions."

The woman blinked, and then shook her head, one hand lifting to touch her face in embarrassment. “I apologize, I forget my manners. I am Teresa Vela, from Seere.” She gestured to the blond man. “This is Edward Frost, a traveling alchemist originally from Cumberland. Our injured companion is Ichiro, whom you know now is from Seheron.”

Fiona nodded. “I am glad to meet you all, though I sincerely wish it was under better circumstances.” She paused, then focused on Teresa. “I had thought it would be acceptable to speak with you here, but I see that it might be better to allow your friend some peace and quiet in which to recover. Would you mind joining Connor and me downstairs to talk?”

The hesitance in Teresa’s body language was clear as a shout from across the village. She glanced briefly at the two men. The blond she had called Edward nodded, then Teresa turned to the man in the bed whom she called Ichiro, and spoke in a language Connor did not understand. Ichiro frowned, and shifted as if to get up, but Teresa rushed to his side, shaking her head and gently pushing him back down onto the pillows. He glared, but said something in a sharp rush of words, to which Teresa responded with another nervous glance at Fiona and Connor, before turning back to her friend and nodding.

Ichiro stared at her, then turned his glare on Fiona and Connor – and Connor gulped. Without saying a word, the Fog Warrior had declared his mistrust of the two of them, and that if anything untoward happened to his friends, whether in or out of his sight, he would be more than happy to slaughter everyone in Redcliffe in retribution. Connor strongly suspected the man would probably succeed too – perhaps not in killing everyone, but in killing a great many people before he himself was slain.

After a long moment, Ichiro finally relaxed, and jerked his chin sharply towards the door. Teresa smiled a little tremulously, and murmured something in that other language before turning to Fiona. “I will come with you.”

Fiona smiled, and gestured to the woman so that she could leave the room first. She did so, walking so quietly that it had to have been learned. For a moment, Connor wondered where she had learned to do it, but quick on the heels of that thought came the question of _ why _ she had to learn it in the first place.

As far as he knew, there was only one reason why: the same reason for the hunted look on her face when she entered the tavern, the same reason for the undercurrent of nervous mistrust that lingered in her gaze, and which found fuller expression in her companions.

Fiona directed Teresa towards a table in the far corner of the tavern, away from the general noise and hubbub of the rest of the establishment. Teresa headed in that direction, picking a seat that ensured her back was to the wall and had a good view of the bar and the door to the tavern. Fiona settled across from her, while Connor took the seat between them – the one that would not get in her way if she decided she wanted to leave. He got the feeling that she would appreciate an escape route.

“Now then,” Fiona began, her voice still that same low and soothing tone it had been ever since she began speaking to Teresa, “I have been told some things about you and your companions by Guardswoman Lillian, the guard who greeted you at the gate. She said that you had come from Rivain, and that you were fleeing from the Annulment of the Dairsmuid Circle. It is mostly Orlesians, Fereldans, and Free Marchers here in Redcliffe, and we have had no news about anyone surviving the Annulment beyond the final message sent by First Enchanter Rivella, and the announcement by the Seekers that it was done. I know this will be hard for you, but please, will you tell us of what happened, and how you came to be here?”

Teresa inhaled a shuddering breath, and closed her eyes. “It is…a great thing you ask of me,” she whispered. “But it is owed for your kindness in taking us in.”

She opened her eyes, and began: “As I have already mentioned, I am from Seere. My family is made up of merchants, with contracts in Qunandar and Seheron. We sail our ships and ply our trade, as we have done for generations. It is not always a good living, but we have lived it honestly. We have never turned to piracy like those _ pendejos _ in Llomerynn.

“Last year during First Day, we found out that my nephew Luis had magic. I was helping in the kitchens with my mother and some of my aunts and uncles, preparing the feast, and the knife I was using to slice a large _atún_ slipped badly. Luis was helping to debone some _sardinas _for the feast, and as soon as he saw the blood he came over and healed me. It was a powerful gift too, since he left no scar at all.” She lifted her left hand as evidence, and indeed there was no scar – or if there was, it was lost in the midst of the lines of her palm.

At Fiona and Connor’s nods to acknowledge the information, she lowered her hand, and continued: “At first we were shocked. There is no history of magic in our family. But we knew what we had to do. We contacted the Chantry the day after, and a few days later two Templars arrived to collect Luis and take him to the Dairsmuid Circle. But Luis… He was just a boy; young enough that we could still call him _ mijito _ and he would not wrinkle his nose at it. He did not understand what was happening, did not want to go. So we begged the Templars to let some of us go with him, to reassure him and get him accustomed to leaving us for his new life as a mage. The Templars granted our request, and I, my parents, and his parents made the journey to Dairsmuid with him and the Templars. We arrived the day before the Seekers invoked the Right of Annulment.”

Teresa paused then, and Connor could see her visibly struggling to master her emotions. He saw how she squeezed her eyes shut, only barely succeeding in holding back the tears that glittered along her lashes, and his heart went out to her, because though he did not know the details, and did not wish to know the details, he knew what came next in her tale.

When she spoke again, her voice was low and ragged with the tears she forced herself to hold back, her accent thickening. “It was-- I do not even have words for it. How can you describe your whole world ending in fire and blood? The screams, the smell of the burning bodies, the blood in the streets…” Her shoulders hitched on a poorly contained sob, and she shook her head, both hands coming up to cover her face. “_Lo siento,_ _lo siento mucho, pero—_”

Connor did not understand Rivaini, but he did not need to understand the language to know that whatever memories she was reliving, they were distressing. And how could they not be? The Right of Annulment was not a gentle thing, which was why it was invoked only when extreme measures needed to be taken. For it to be extended to people who were only peripherally connected to the Circle…it must have indeed seemed like the world was ending.

He glanced at Fiona, asking her without words what he ought to do. She simply sat there, her eyes welling with tears of her own – though for what, Connor could not guess. He supposed it was because she was remembering something from her past, some similar disaster, when the lives of those she valued most were lost in bloody violence.

And for his part, Connor was remembering what happened during the Blight: the demon, the undead, the near-destruction of this very village. All three of them at the table had been touched by brutality and loss; it was a shadow they shared, and one they would never escape.

Tentatively, Connor reached out, and put a hand on Teresa’s shoulder. She jerked in reaction, her hands coming away from her face as she looked at him, dark brown eyes scared for a brief moment before relaxing when she realized it was him touching her, and not something out of her ghastly memories of the Annulment.

He offered her a sympathetic smile, letting her see in his eyes that he knew something of what it meant to carry dark and terrible memories. “You don’t have to tell us, if you don’t want to,” he said quietly. “I think I speak both for myself and Grand Enchanter Fiona when I say we know what invoking the Right means, as well as what it meant when the Seekers extended it to include the community outside the Circle itself.”

Teresa continued to stare at him for a long moment, but at length, she nodded, and relaxed. “I— Yes. _ Gra— _Thank you. It is— The memories, they are very dark. Even a year after.” She swallowed, and shifted in a way that indicated she wished for Connor to let her go.

Connor did just that, sitting back as Teresa seemed to gather herself, and continued her story: “My family was killed at that time. They killed Luis first, since he was already in the Circle when they arrived. Then they hunted us down, knowing we were still in the area. We tried to run, but I was the only one who escaped.

“In the chaos I encountered Edward, and together we fled the destruction and hid in the wilderness south of Dairsmuid. During that time Edward told me that he had been at the Circle for a week, buying alchemical ingredients and doing research in their library. He had been out on errands when the Seekers arrived, and he tried to get back in to see if he could save some of his friends from what was coming. He could not, and had to flee back out to hide when the Seekers caught sight of him and gave chase.

“So we banded together and fled, all the while looking over our shoulders, because we knew who was behind us. I do not know if the news made it here, but the Seekers did not stop at just the Dairsmuid Circle and its community. No, they spread out into the surrounding villages outside of Dairsmuid, slaughtering as they went. I suspect it was because they knew that people had fled the Annulment and had likely hidden themselves in those villages. As far as I know, they found those people, and killed them too, as I have not yet met anyone who claims they survived the Annulment save for myself and Edward.”

Connor stared, shocked by this new piece of information. If what Teresa said was true, then the Seekers had gone far beyond what the Right mandated, and had killed far, _ far _ more people than their report led the world to suspect.

“We did not know,” Fiona whispered hoarsely. “We thought it had ended in Dairsmuid. We did not know-- Oh Maker, we did not know.”

Teresa nodded slowly. “I suppose you could not have known, after all that happened then, and what happened after.” She inhaled a shaky breath, and then continued: “After that, Edward and I wandered the wilderness for a while, avoiding villages as much as we could because did not wish to call the wrath of the Seekers down upon them for sheltering us. Eventually we circled around and made our way north, back to Seere. I commandeered one of my family’s boats: a small one-masted thing not to be dignified with the term ‘ship’, meant for fishing rather than trade. I sailed us to Kont-aar, where we hid for a while as Edward plied his trade as an alchemist to earn some money, with myself as his liaison since I can understand Qunari, though I cannot speak it.

“But we knew we could not stay, so as soon as we had enough coin I purchased a ship and hired a crew, and we sailed to Seheron. As I have said, my family trades there regularly, so I could speak the native language well enough that we could stay for longer than we had in Kont-aar. We intended to go back to Rivain once we heard that all was calm again, but it was not meant to be. We heard news that the Seekers had found evidence of us in Kont-aar, and they were coming to Seheron to find us.

“By then, Edward and I were at our wits’ end. Our only solution, much as we disliked it, was to flee to Tevinter, and then lose our trail in the Imperium as we headed south to the Free Marches. I met Ichiro while I was looking for a ship that would take us to Qarinus, and he offered me his services as a bodyguard. He said he was weary of the fighting that had consumed his homeland, and he was looking for a better life elsewhere. Since he, too, wished to flee his circumstances, I agreed to his request.

“Not long after, I found a ship sailing to our chosen destination, and I arranged passage for the three of us. We arrived there just when news of the vote to dissolve the Circle of Magi reached the Imperium. By the time we arrived in Kirkwall, we heard that the mages had been given sanctuary in Redcliffe. That was when we agreed to come here, because although we are not mages, we are still fleeing from your enemies; we hoped that would be enough for you to take us in. And so here we are.”

Neither Connor nor Fiona moved for a moment, absorbing the tale they had just been told. But after a while, Fiona moved. She leaned forward, reached out, and gently placed her hand over Teresa’s tightly clasped ones, which were folded together on the table between them.

“I am glad you found us,” she murmured, her voice a tangled web of grief, anger, pity, and conviction. “We had no idea that the tragedy at the Dairsmuid Circle extended so far beyond it. But you need not run any longer. You are not mages, it is true, but you understand our plight, have been caught up in our war. It is the least we can do to let you stay here in Redcliffe. You will be safe among us.”

Connor nodded. “I know the village, so I can help you and your friends find a place to stay. And we always have a need for certain skills. Alchemists are always welcome, and there are many reputable ones in Redcliffe right now, so your friend Edward should find himself at home. Once your friend Ichiro is recovered he can help guard our hunters and foragers when they leave the village. And you…perhaps you can fish?”

Teresa offered him a shaky smile as she shook her head. “I can sail a boat, but I have no skill at fishing. I can hunt, though. I had to learn how.” She hesitated briefly, then continued, in a meek voice: “But…may we find this place to stay soon? I do not mean to rush, but Ichiro is not accustomed to so much noise. I think it will be better for him if we move to someplace quieter.”

“There are some abandoned cottages towards the furthest end of the village, near the cliffs,” Connor said thoughtfully. “I will go and see which ones are still in good repair, and if I find one that’s suitable, I will come here and fetch you.”

At that, something in Teresa’s expression shifted: relief, genuine and bright, suffused her face and gave her smile a quality Connor did not expect. It made her seem less haggard, more youthful – perhaps closer to the woman she had been, before all the tragedies that befell her. Not dazzlingly beautiful, but comely enough to catch the eye, if one were so inclined.

“Thank you” she breathed. _ “ _Thank you very much for everything.”

Fiona smiled, and stood. “And thank you for telling us your story. Forgive us, but we must leave you for now. I’ve some business to attend to, and Connor here has just promised to find you a residence. I will come and speak with you again tomorrow, if you do not mind?”

“No, I do not mind,” Teresa replied, standing as well. “I will go back upstairs and see to my friends.”

“If you need any medicines, speak to Clemence.” Connor pointed out where the Tranquil stood in the tavern. “He can tell you or Edward where to get the ingredients for any potions or salves Ichiro might need to get better.”

“Thank you. I will do that.”

With that, Teresa nodded to them both, and then turned, walking with slow, too-quiet steps to the stairs, and then up them, disappearing from their sight.

As soon as she was gone, Fiona heaved a heavy sigh. “So much death…” she murmured. “Such a thing cannot be allowed to continue. Too many innocents have gotten caught in this war. We must find a way to end it.”

Connor’s eyes widened. He knew what Fiona was referring to. He glanced around to ensure that no one was within earshot, and then leaned closer, whispering: “Will you do it then?”

“Not yet,” Fiona replied, shaking her head firmly. “The Inquisition has not yet done anything by which we can judge their intentions. Once we are more certain about what they plan to do, I will go and speak to their leader myself.”

Connor nodded, and followed Fiona out the tavern, though they went in separate directions: she towards the village square and he towards the northern end of the village, to the area around the chantry, where there were still very few people and some of the cottages were still unoccupied.

He thought of the fear in Teresa’s eyes, thought of all she and her friends had been through. Fiona was right: there were too many innocents caught up in this war, and it had to end. But that end would not come from the Chantry: with Divine Justinia dead, the mages found no reason to trust the organization, though many of them still clung to the structure it provided for their faith. No: they had to turn to the Inquisition to bring an end to the war – but it was still too new, its intentions still unknown.

So they would wait until it was clear what direction the Herald of Andraste was taking the organization under his command. Connor hoped, _ prayed _, that it was the path of mercy and justice, that the Herald had indeed been sent by the Maker’s Bride to aid them in these trying times.

But that would come later. For now, he thought as he shook himself and started looking into the cottages to find one that was at the very least dry, he had other things to do.

\-----

Written on a narrow strip of parchment tucked into a small knothole in a red cedar tree a mile from the gates of Redcliffe Village, with a patch of Crystal Grace growing in its shade:

_ SWRIWAFODGQOULMLXACCDZQMAZCSXWZ _

Decoded using the Bellaso cipher, passphrase MIYAJIMA:

_ GOTINSTORYSOLDALLSECUREMORESOON _

Adjusted for comprehension:

_ GOT IN. STORY SOLD. ALL SECURE. MORE SOON. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES: The Bellaso cipher is named after its inventor, Giovan Battista Bellaso. Blaise de Vigenère used the Bellaso cipher as the base for what’s now known as the Vigenère cipher, though Bellaso’s simpler version is also called the Vigenère cipher even if it technically isn’t. Since I didn’t use the Vigenère (autokey) version of the cipher and used Bellaso’s version, I’ve decided to call it the Bellaso cipher in the story.
> 
> To create the coded message at the end of this chapter I used this webpage: http://rumkin.com/tools/cipher/vigenere.php. It calls the Bellaso cipher a Vigenère cipher though.


	8. Wibbly-Wobbly, Timey-Wimey

One month had gone by since Teresa, Edward, and Ichiro had gotten into Redcliffe, and all was going well for them thus far. Some were a little suspicious, but as word got around that they were survivors of the Annulment of the Dairsmuid Circle, they were almost immediately embraced by the community as a whole. It did not seem to matter how a person had voted at that conclave at Andoral’s Reach Fiona told them about; some tragedies crossed all political and ideological boundaries, and the Annulment was one of them. Everyone appeared to agree that the Seekers had gone too far in what they had done, and so anyone who survived that incident was more than worthy of sympathy and assistance.  
  
Most of that sympathy was directed at Teresa and Edward, since their ruse made them out to be the ones who had been there and survived. Edward was nearly instantly embraced by the alchemists and healers in the village, while Teresa was showered with attention and aid from practically every corner of the community. When she refused an invitation to dine with the Arl’s family in Redcliffe Castle, citing her humble origins, the Arlessa, Kaitlyn, came down into the village herself the following day, leading a team of servants laden down with supplies ranging from the practical (clothes, bedding, some furniture) to the luxurious (a whole berry cake topped with cream, bottles of Antivan wine, thick rugs, rich tapestries).  
  
When Teresa tried to protest the genuinely overwhelming amount of gifts (knowing, as Ichiro did, that they could call too much attention – attention they could not afford), the Arlessa simply smiled, and shook her head. “I know what it means to have disaster fall upon you, and then be forced to start over with very little to your name. Had the Hero of Ferelden not taken a moment to be kind to me, I wouldn’t have been able to move to Denerim, start a foundry, build wealth, and then meet my husband. All the joy I have in life now, I owe to her generosity. I’d be remiss if I did not pay that kindness forward to someone who truly needed it.”  
  
In the end, there was nothing any of them could do but accept the gifts. At the very least, most of them were useful – even the more luxurious items, since the tapestries and rugs helped retain the warmth from the rather modest hearth of the cottage they’d moved into. As for the food and wine, they ate and drank what they could, and shared the rest with everyone else. The wine, especially, added to their popularity and strengthened their place in the community.  
  
Throughout all of this, Ichiro remained on the periphery, an outsider looking in – which was exactly as he preferred it. His cover as a Seheron Fog Warrior who did not understand Common went a long way towards maintaining a distance from the community, and it certainly helped when he needed to spy. People tended to treat a person as if they were deaf, if they thought said person could not understand what they were saying, and so were freer with their words than around someone they knew understood their language. That treatment allowed Ichiro to wander around, smiling vaguely at anyone who tried to talk to him, all the while keeping his ears open for any scrap of information that might prove useful.  
  
At first, there had been nothing that they did not already know: the mages were glad they had sanctuary in Redcliffe, but they knew it would only be a matter of time before the Templars stopped fighting against the apostates in the Witchwood, and then they would turn their attentions to the village. They hoped Arl Teagan’s presence in the castle would be enough of a deterrent, but Connor (who started spending his afternoons with them if he wasn’t doing anything himself) confessed to Teresa that he highly doubted his uncle’s presence would put off the Templars. Nothing short of a squadron of elite soldiers and knights from Denerim, he’d told her, would do that – and there was still the chance the Templars would just plow through them, too, and risk war with Ferelden in order to wipe out the mages.  
  
Alongside all this worrying about the Templars was some talk of allying with the Inquisition. Ichiro first heard it from Connor, who mentioned to Edward that Fiona had some notion of doing so, but no plans to turn it into reality just yet. When Edward asked why, Connor had shrugged, and said that they did not yet know what the Inquisition was about, what it intended to do. They needed to know that the Inquisition would respect them, treat them humanely: in short, that it would not be like the Templars and the Chantry.  
  
And then talk began to shift. The scouts assisting the mages brought back news that the Inquisition forces had arrived at the Crossroads, and they had protected a certain Mother Giselle from getting caught in the crossfire of an apostate-Templar fight. As soon as word got around, the air in Redcliffe seemed to change into something more anticipatory. Ichiro noted it, and sent a report to the rest of their team, hiding it in one of the three dead-drop locations he, Teresa, and Edward had been using since the op started. The message, once decrypted and adjusted for comprehension, read:  
  
_STILL SECURE. HERALD PERCEPT MORE + SINCE XROADS. MORE SOON._  
  
A few days later, Teresa came back from a foraging trip with a response. Decrypted and adjusted, it read:  
  
_HERALD PERCEPT GOOD. GLOWBUG STILL IN AREA. EYES AND EARS OPEN._  
  
The three of them exchanged looks when Teresa finished the decryption. They knew what it meant: the positive reception of the Inquisition in Redcliffe was deemed a good thing, and with Maxwell (whom they’d code-named “Glowbug” because of his hand) still in the area, they were to keep on observing what was going on in Redcliffe, and report back on any changes.  
  
What followed was a slow, but predictable, shift in opinion. As Maxwell cut a swathe through the Hinterlands, righting wrongs and helping those in need, the perception of the Inquisition in Redcliffe also became more positive. People openly talked about allying with the Inquisition, with some outright wondering why Fiona had not done so already. Still, it wasn’t quite a call to action – not yet. People were speculating, suggesting, but no one was insisting that something be done.  
  
But around that time, Ichiro noticed something: a dissonant note in the rising chorus for alliance with the Inquisition. Some of the mages began suggesting another course of action: escaping to the Tevinter Imperium.  
  
“Who are they?” Ichiro asked when he met up with Teresa the night after he first heard the name mentioned.  
  
Teresa frowned, troubled. “From what I’ve read, they’re supposed to be a major power to the north,” she replied, “and unlike Orlais, Ferelden, and apparently every other place in Thedas, they’re run by mages called magisters, who are all, to a one, Sauron-level Dark Lords whose sole purpose is to enslave the rest of Thedas so they have a steady supply of living sacrifices to power their nefarious blood magics.”  
  
Both Ichiro and Edward leveled disbelieving stares at her, and Teresa smirked. “I don’t buy a lick of it, of course. It’s clear there’s some kind of schism going on between the Chantry in the Imperium and the Chantry in Orlais, to say nothing of the political rivalry going on between the two nations themselves, so I’m taking everything the books say about the Imperium with a mountain of salt. The slavery _is_ consistent though, so I’m guessing that’s real, as are the sacrifices to a certain extent.  
  
“But I don’t think that’s what these people are thinking when it comes to the Imperium. What they’re thinking is that the Imperium is a nation of mages who govern themselves, either without the Chantry’s oversight, or with very little interference from the Chantry. In many ways it’s representative of what the mages here in Redcliffe want for themselves: independence, self-determination – and political clout. Maybe some of the mages think that fleeing there would be safer for them.”  
  
“Could they do such a thing?” Edward asked. “If I remember the geography correctly, to get from here to the nearest border with the Imperium, they would have to flee through immensely hostile territory, and they would have to go in force, for their own safety. I highly doubt the countries they need to cross would take a benevolent view of such a group in their territory. And how certain are they that they will be welcomed by the Imperium? I think this world and ours are not so different when it comes to the treatment of refugees.”  
  
“But why these whispers, if they are not guaranteed a welcome?” Ichiro interjected. “Because that is the heart of them: that the Imperium will throw open their borders to any southern mage looking for sanctuary. From what I have gathered, there are many here who would risk even being turned away at the border if only for the slightest chance of the freedom they never had.”  
  
Edward nodded in understanding, as did Teresa, but hers was slower, more thoughtful, more troubled. At length, Ichiro sighed, and asked: “But this does not answer our initial question of where these rumors are coming from. Do either of you have any ideas?”  
  
Teresa bit her lip. “Might’ve there been a sleeper cell? A recently-activated one?”  
  
Ichiro frowned. He had not considered that – none of them had. “It is a possibility,” he said slowly. “We must be more cautious from now on. And pay closer attention.”  
  
Within the day, Teresa had sent another coded report to the team via one of their dead-drops:  
  
_POSSIBLE SLEEPER CELL IN VILLAGE. TEVINTER STRONGLY SUSPECTED._  
  
The next morning they received the following reply – the fastest they’d gotten since this op started:  
  
_IDENTIFY AND OBSERVE SLEEPER CELL. WATCH YOURSELVES._  
  
After that, all three of them became more serious, tightening the op. Connor noted the shift in their demeanours, and asked if something was wrong, but Teresa explained it away by saying that their minds were more on their jobs now than before: Edward as an alchemist, Teresa and Ichiro as hunters and foragers. Connor accepted the explanation easily enough, not least because the jobs they filled were vitally important to keeping the community fed and healthy.  
  
And all the while, they listened – especially Ichiro. He was the one who first noticed how the whispers to ally with Tevinter were coming from a specific group of mages: newcomers who claimed to have tired of fighting with the apostates in the Witchwood and were coming in from the cold. He kept a close eye on them, noting who they spoke to and how many there were, so he was the first to notice that their number seemed to be growing day by day. They appeared to drift in by ones or twos, losing themselves in the greater population of the village. If Ichiro had not been paying such close attention, it was likely he would have missed them entirely.  
  
But he _had_ been paying close attention – as had his companions, who corroborated his information about the steadily-increasing number of rabble-rousers. They considered taking more direct action, but they were hobbled by how little they knew about the Imperium. How could they counter the information the sleeper cell agents were spreading? It was not as if they could offer a better alternative; they had no authority to make any offers of sanctuary or assistance in the name of the Inquisition, and they had no idea what Maxwell intended to do about the mages anyway. All they could do was keep on floating the suggestion of allying with the Inquisition, keep Fiona’s mind focused on the idea, and hope that Maxwell did something about it soon.  
  
Finally, news reached Redcliffe that the Herald of Andraste had defeated both the Templars to the west _and_ the apostates in the Witchwood, thus rendering the Hinterlands safe once more for trade and travel. Almost immediately, the whispers urging an alliance with the Inquisition became veritable shouts, drowning out those suggesting fleeing to the Imperium. Edward suspected it would not be long until Fiona took action, anticipating that the ever-growing clamor would force her hand. Teresa and Ichiro agreed with his assessment, and they said as much in their report.  
  
They were proven correct when Fiona approached them one afternoon, and asked Teresa and Ichiro to be part of the small scouting party that would sail with her out of Redcliffe to a hidden dock near Sulcher’s Pass. From there, some soldiers would accompany her to the border with Orlais, and from there, her allies in Orlais would see her to Val Royeaux, where she hoped to speak to the Herald, who was rumored to be on his way there.  
  
Of course Ichiro had known this was coming, ever since they’d received an encrypted message telling them that Maxwell was preparing to head to Val Royeaux. He and Teresa acquiesced to Fiona’s request, and traveled with her via boat to a nondescript dock leading up to an abandoned village on Lake Calenhad’s northwestern shore. Five armed and armored men and women were waiting for them: their armor unmarked, but each wearing something on their person, either a band of leather or strip of cloth, tinted the rich russet of House Theirin. Based on that, it was clear these were not ordinary mercenaries, but soldiers in service to the Royal House of Ferelden, sworn to the King himself. The Redcliffe scouting party accompanied them as far as the entrance to Sulcher’s Pass, and then turned back towards the abandoned village and the dock to sail back to Redcliffe. The entire trip took a day and a half to complete.  
  
“Maybe we need to seriously consider wrapping up this op,” Teresa said, once she and Ichiro had returned and they were safely ensconced in the privacy of their cottage with Edward. “I don’t think there’s anything else we can do here now that Fiona’s headed to Val Royeaux.”  
  
Edward nodded. “We do appear to have reached a definite conclusion to this whole affair, have we not?”  
  
Ichiro agreed. He could not think of any good reasons to remain in Redcliffe. All the information they had gathered had gone from their team to Leliana, and from Leliana to Maxwell, who would surely factor that information in whatever decision he made regarding the mages. It was all in his hands now. “I will inform the rest of the team tonight.”  
  
He was as good as his word. The message he left, once decrypted and adjusted for comprehension, read:  
  
_QUEEN BEE CITYBOUND TO TALK TO GLOWBUG. ROLL UP OP Y/N?_  
  
It was easy to sneak back into Redcliffe even with the gates closed; he had done it so many times he could have done it blindfolded. It also helped that the guards at the gates were complacent, and the mages themselves were so secure in their safety that they did not think they needed to run patrols. On one hand, it bothered Ichiro from a security perspective, but on the other hand, it was useful for the purposes of himself and his teammates. _Itadaku mono wa natsu de mo kosode_, he supposed – especially in this world, where certain padded jackets were almost as good as armor.  
  
With that thought in mind, he had gone to bed, certain that whatever the response was, the day would be much the same as it had always been in Redcliffe. And for a while, it was.  
  
But then a week later, everything changed.

\-----

“Something happened last night.”  
  
Teresa nodded, scowling at the village square in the distance, where several people were milling around. A few days ago she would have taken that as a normal sight, but not today.  
  
“But _what_?” she hissed to Ichiro who came to stand beside her, his own scowl making him look rather ferocious. “There’s no way Fiona could’ve gotten back to us so quickly. And when the _fuck_ did that magister get here?”  
  
She caught sight of said magister through a gap in the crowd, dressed in a dark red hooded robe over armor. He had the hood pulled up over his head, and a voice in Teresa’s head that sounded very much like herself as a petulant nine-year-old said the three little fin-things coming out of Magister Gereon Alexius’ hood were a sign that the man was evil incarnate because they looked like horns. Like Satan, the voice insisted.  
  
“Did you just compare the magister to Satan?”  
  
Teresa blinked, and glanced at Ichiro, who was looking at her with one eyebrow raised. She offered him a sheepish grin. “Hadn’t realized I’d said that out loud, but…yeah?”  
  
Ichiro huffed a quiet laugh, and shook his head before he turned away. “I will go and speak to the rest of the team,” he murmured. “They might have seen something we did not.”  
  
Teresa nodded, knowing what Ichiro would expect her to do. “Ed and I’ll keep an eye on things here.”  
  
“Be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. We will need to exit swiftly if this gets worse.”  
  
“Shouldn’t we stay? Find out more?”  
  
“These are mages, Tessa-_chan_. Worse, mages we are not familiar with. It is more important that we get information back to Haven than waste our efforts here trying to change a situation that is beyond our ability to handle on our own.”  
  
Teresa grimaced, but nodded. Ichiro had a point: this was swiftly morphing into something beyond their control. “Will do, Hayabusa.”  
  
Ichiro smiled, and gently squeezed her around the waist in a hug: something he could do at the moment, since there was no one watching them to see. “_Ganbatte,_ Hummingbird.”  
  
Teresa grinned at that, and returned the hug briefly before letting her arm drop away so he could make his escape – likely by scaling the cliff behind their cottage. In the meantime, she schooled her face into a concerned, curious expression, and drifted towards the crowd in the square.  
  
Teresa was good at reading the mood of a crowd – not as good as Ichiro, but good enough to catch the subtle shifts in mood and opinion that changed a crowd from a relatively peaceful gathering to an all-out riot. At the moment, the best word she could think of was “trepidation,” which made a lot of sense.  
  
She spotted Connor in the crowd, standing with two of his friends from Kinloch Hold: one was a blond man named Rickard, and the other a redhead named Ewart. Her gaze met Connor’s through the crowd, and he spoke briefly to his friends so that there was space for her to stand with them when she was close enough.  
  
“What is going on?” she asked, deliberately thickening her Spanish accent as she gave her best “lost and confused” impression. “Who are those people there?”  
  
“Tevinter mages,” Ewart replied quietly, but no amount of quiet tones could disguise the venom underneath his words. “You know, the ones Fiona invited to come and ally with us. Except it’s not an alliance, but ten years’ indentured servitude for all of us in exchange for Tevinter citizenship.”  
  
Teresa gaped. “What?!” She winced when she realized the Spanish accent had fallen by the wayside at that, but apparently her distress was such that none of her companions noticed.  
  
Ewart frowned at her. “Didn’t you know? That’s what the messenger offered, and Fiona took it.”  
  
Rickard shook his head. “Mistress Teresa _doesn’t_ know,” he told his friend. “She arrived after we got the news the magister was coming and Grand Enchanter Fiona made the decision.”  
  
He turned to Teresa, his smile kind, but uneasy. “In the first days after our arrival here in Redcliffe, the Templars hounded us all the way here, intending to kill us all. We weren’t sure if we would be safe, so the Grand Enchanter cast around desperately for someone to help us. That was when the Tevinter messenger arrived, saying that Magister Gereon Alexius would offer us assistance in the name of the Imperium in exchange for ten years’ worth of indentured servitude. The magister finally arrived today, all the way from Minrathous.”  
  
“What is this about indentured servitude?” Teresa demanded, ensuring that the accent was firmly back in place. “Is that not slavery?”  
  
“Only for ten years,” Rickard replied, shrugging. “We serve the Imperium for ten years without wages, but they will feed us and clothe us and give us a home. After that, we will have all the rights of a citizen of the Imperium. It’s not so different from being in a Circle. At least it’s not a life sentence. Ten years of service isn’t so bad.”  
  
“You can’t know that for sure,” Ewart hissed. “And I didn’t leave the Circle just to find myself in the Tevinter version of it.”  
  
“But it’s only—”  
  
“I did not vote with the Libertarians just to have myself chained again! And worse: to Tevinter!”  
  
As the two mages argued, Teresa looked away, unable to hide the confusion on her face. None of this made sense. When they’d arrived, everyone had seemed quite settled in Redcliffe, though uncertainty ran as an undercurrent throughout the entire community – for good reason, given that at the time, the Templars and apostates were still fighting with each other, and there was always a chance that if the stalemate broke in favor of the former, the Templars would come charging up to Redcliffe to kill them all, war with Ferelden or no. Even then, there had been no talk about Tevinter – at least, not until some days later, when Ichiro uncovered that sleeper cell dripping poison into various people’s ears. But by then, Maxwell was already doing such a good job pacifying the Hinterlands that in general, the mages in Redcliffe were inclined to ally with the Inquisition instead of fleeing en-masse to the Imperium. And just last week she and Ichiro had _personally_ seen Fiona off on her journey to Val Royeaux, and she’d _clearly_ said she was going to offer an alliance to the Herald.  
  
And yet here she was, back _far_ sooner than was humanly possible (given Thedas’ medieval transportation technology), standing next to a Tevinter magister – and acting as if _this_ had been the plan all along.  
  
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”  
  
Teresa glanced up at Connor, who looked like he’d spent the last month since she’d met him doing nothing but frowning over one thing or another – which was patently untrue, as she’d seen him laughing more than a few times before, usually while he was taking care of the magically-talented children who’d been forced out of the Circles along with their elders.  
  
At that moment, he looked positively doleful as he explained: “I didn’t wish to make you feel unsafe here. I told myself I’d explain when you were more settled, and then help you leave if you did not want to stay, but it never seemed like the right time.”  
  
“But…did you not tell me Grand Enchanter Fiona was thinking of allying with the Inquisition?” Teresa asked tentatively. “That was the plan, no? Just a few days ago, it was, when you said so.”  
  
Connor continued to frown, but it was more confused. “Are you certain I said such a thing? There was no such talk, not until very recently, at any rate. Joining Tevinter was already in the works even before you arrived.”  
  
Teresa blinked at that, unable to keep looking hesitant. She _knew_ that wasn’t what happened. Only two things were possible here. First, the _entire village_ had _collectively_ lied to her, Edward, and Ichiro. That, she knew, was patently impossible, because this many people could not maintain a lie – or at least, not _consistently_. That was something she and her teammates could spot, and easily at that. And even if they _could_, she highly doubted Connor, of all people, would manage to sustain the lie without slipping, even a little bit. He had spent a lot of his time with them after all; enough time for any one of the three of them to catch him if he was covering something up. If this was _really_ what was going to happen, she and her teammates would have known the truth within two weeks, at the latest, of being in Redcliffe.  
  
Which meant something else was going on. She just wished she knew _what._  
  
She mumbled an excuse to Connor and his friends, and slipped through the crowd, intending to head back to the cottage and talk to Edward, and maybe Ichiro if he was already back. All the while, her mind was working on overdrive, trying to make sense of what she’d just heard, and _hating_ how she kept on coming up empty. She was fairly certain that magic was involved; what bothered her was that she didn’t know what _kind_ of magic could do this sort of thing. Did mind-controlling magic exist? If so, was it possible to warp the memories of all the mages in Redcliffe – up to and including the Grand Enchanter herself? And if so, how come the spell missed her and the team?  
  
She growled to herself as she strode past the chantry, not bothering to hide her irritation since there was no one to see—  
  
Wait.  
  
She came to a dead halt on the steps leading up to the chantry, having just noticed a flash of yellow slip through the partially-open door. Suspicious, she turned, quieting her footfalls as she climbed up the chantry steps and slid through the door, keeping to the shadows in the aisle as she approached the transept, where two people were talking: one wearing the yellow she’d seen coming in, the other wearing white.  
  
“—not seen?” asked one of the figures, speaking in a masculine voice with a smooth timbre that made Teresa’s ears practically prickle with attention. She wondered if the speaker looked as handsome as he sounded. Cullen certainly did: warm and friendly to match his eyes when speaking to her, and strong and firm to match his title when calling out orders to the recruits. Gods, it’d been too long since she’d last seen him.  
  
Down girl, Teresa scolded herself, slapping her misplaced thoughts down so she could focus on the conversation she was spying on.  
  
“No,” replied the one dressed in yellow – also masculine, though the timbre was not such to make Teresa’s ears prickle. Handsome, she mused, but maybe not as handsome as the other guy. “They’re all still busy in the square. They’ll be there for a while.”  
  
The first speaker uttered a sardonic laugh. “That’s new. Never thought your father was as fond of his own voice as all that, Felix.”  
  
The man in yellow – Felix – shook his head. “Neither did I, Dorian, but he’s changed.”  
  
“I know.” Dorian – the man in white – sighed. “He’s a better man than this, Felix. We parted on bad terms, but I can’t let him destroy himself like this.”  
  
“It’s too late for that, I’m afraid.” Felix lifted a hand. “It’s not that I don't love him; I do. But you only saw him for the first two years after Mother died. He was bad then, yes, I know, but at least he expressed his grief and his anger, even if he hurled it at targets who didn’t deserve it. After you left, all of that crystallized and turned hard inside him, and became this obsession with changing the past. When the Venatori came to him offering the impossible, he accepted immediately, with no thought to the consequences.”  
  
“You don’t have to excuse your father, you know,” Dorian said gently. As he spoke, he shifted so that Teresa could see his face, and she blinked.  
  
Teresa wasn’t that into mustaches. She tended to think of them as costume-y, or creepy. They could never look dashing, as far as she was concerned – and yet this Dorian actually managed to make a mustache _with the ends curled_ look downright attractive. Combined with the little soul patch under his bottom lip he reminded her of a swashbuckling period hero, ready to win his way through a conflict with charm and derring-do – rather like a musketeer in the grand tradition of Alexandre Dumas.  
  
Except instead of a rapier, he was carrying a staff, which meant he was a mage – but Teresa knew he wasn’t part of Redcliffe’s community, because she doubted she’d miss a face like _that_ in the crowd. So that meant he was one of the Tevinters – but what was he doing in _here_, with the magister’s son no less, meeting in secret? And why did it sound like neither of them approved of what was going on? Did they know the truth? Did they know what really happened?  
  
And if they _did_ know the truth, and seemed opposed to the current situation, would they be useful allies? Would it be worth breaking her cover to talk to them, gain more information?  
  
“—won’t be safe for them much longer.”  
  
Teresa focused again upon hearing that phrase, just in time for Dorian to reply: “I’m touched by your high estimation of my skills, but I’m afraid I can’t do that without revealing myself to your father and his Venatori allies. And besides, he seems as likely to kill the Arl and his family as throw them out.”  
  
Teresa’s eyes widened. What the _what_ now?  
  
But Felix shook his head. “He’s not so far gone as to ignore political repercussions. If he kills Arl Teagan he calls down the wrath of the King of Ferelden on his head – to say nothing of what the Queen would do.”  
  
“All right, the King I find believable, but the Queen? Come now Felix, the woman hasn’t been sighted in public for years.”  
  
“Just because no one has seen her in public doesn’t mean she’s dead, else the King would have found another woman to be Queen. No: she’s alive, doing something out of sight. Something to do with the Wardens, I imagine; you know how secretive they are. And I don’t care what the history books say about Redcliffe Castle’s defenses; it would not withstand the combined forces of Denerim, Highever, and however many other arlings and bannorns they can rally to their cause – especially if they are led by His Majesty the Warden King and Her Majesty the Hero of Ferelden.”  
  
“Quite the Exalted March that would be, I imagine.” Dorian sighed, and shook his head. “No, you’re right: your father would never be so stupid as to call down the wrath of the King and Queen of Ferelden. Those two ended the last Blight, after all; they could probably get through the castle’s defenses with nothing more than a prybar and a wheel of cheese, if they had just cause.  
  
“But as I have said, I can’t be the one to get them out of the village. I’ve only just gotten in myself, and it was not easy. If I tried to leave, and with company, at that, your father would know I’m here. He cannot know that, Felix. He will try to rope me into this insane plan of his, whether or not I wanted to be part of it. And since I most definitely do not want to be part of it, he might resort to more forceful methods to get me to participate – up to and including blood magic.”  
  
“Then what should I do?”  
  
“Find someone in the village I suppose?”  
  
“The spell warped all their memories, Dorian. None of them even knows that what is happening now was never supposed to happen at all.”  
  
That was more than Teresa could bear. Time to bite the bullet. She stepped out of the shadows in the aisle and into the pool of light underneath a pair of torches in a sconce, and declared: “Not everyone.”  
  
Both men whirled to face her, startled, but in a split second the man named Dorian had his staff out and aimed at her, and Teresa could feel her skin tingling as he readied a spell.  
  
“Thought you said you weren’t followed,” he said over his shoulder to Felix.  
  
“I didn’t follow him,” Teresa replied, holding her hands out to her sides to show she was unarmed. “Not deliberately anyway. I just saw him duck into the chantry and got curious.”  
  
Dorian’s eyes narrowed at her. “And who taught you your manners, that you think it’s acceptable to spy on people?”  
  
“My grandmother, who would’ve said spying is completely acceptable if you think you’re in danger of losing life, limb, and loved ones.”  
  
Teresa thought she caught one corner of Dorian’s mouth lift upwards in amusement at her alliteration, but that expression quickly disappeared as he once more became serious. “Are you related to the Arl?”  
  
“She’s not,” Felix said then, stepping out from behind Dorian. “She’s supposed to be a survivor from the Annulment of the Dairsmuid Circle.” He frowned. “Except you’re not that, are you? Not really.”  
  
Teresa winced, realizing that in her haste, she hadn’t thought to put on the Spanish accent. Busted, she thought – but maybe this could still be salvaged if she told the truth? If what she’d heard these two talking about was accurate, then they might hear her out, if not help her outright.  
  
So she shook her head. “I’m not.”  
  
“Then who are you?” Dorian demanded. “And do tell the truth, because if you lie I will be forced to kill you, and I would hate to get blood on these robes. Bloodstains are so very unstylish, and extremely difficult to get out of white fabric.”  
  
Teresa resisted the urge to snort at Dorian’s complaint over what her blood would do to his clothes. Man was a snarker, and she liked that. More importantly, though, he said he’d be _forced_ to kill her if she lied. That meant it was something he’d do only if he felt it was necessary. That was good. Maybe this would just go her way and she’d walk out of here not only with all her body parts intact, but with information too.  
  
“Around here, I’m known as Teresa Vela of Seere, a merchant’s daughter who survived the Annulment of the Dairsmuid Circle,” she replied. “But in truth, I’m Teresa Andrada. I’m an agent for the Inquisition.”  
  
She saw Felix’s eyes go wide, while one of Dorian’s eyebrows went up in what she thought was surprise. She _hoped_ it was surprise, anyway; she did _not_ want to make an Action Hero Exit if she could help it.  
  
As it turned out, Dorian’s raised eyebrow was an indication of surprise, but it was soon followed by intense curiosity. The mage put his staff away, and approached her slowly, his gaze going from suspicious to outright fascinated.  
  
“How very interesting,” he murmured. “How long have you been here in Redcliffe?”  
  
“A little over a month,” she replied, turning around in place to keep Dorian in her line of sight as he circled around her like a shark.  
  
“And what did you learn in that time? About the mages, their situation?”  
  
“When we arrived Grand Enchanter Fiona told us that they were relatively secure, but still wary of the fighting that was going on between the Templars and apostates, which at the time was in stalemate. The fear was that if the Templars won, they’d march up to Redcliffe and kill all the mages, even if it meant risking war with Ferelden in the process. But the general attitude was that they’d wait and see.  
  
“That changed a few weeks ago. That’s when whispers of fleeing to Tevinter started going around, but they weren’t serious. By then everyone knew that the Herald was out in the Hinterlands working to restore order, and doing a bang-up job of it too, so everyone was more interested in allying with the Inquisition.  
  
“Not much longer after that, we got news that the Herald of Andraste had managed to defeat both the Templars and the apostates who were still fighting, thus rendering this entire area safe. That was when the decision was made to meet up with the Inquisition and offer an alliance, but no one was sure how to do that. We then learned the Herald was heading to Val Royeaux to meet up with the Chantry to discuss his and the Inquisition’s heretical status. Grand Enchanter Fiona decided to risk going to Val Royeaux to speak with the Herald about an alliance. I was part of a small group of scouts who escorted the Grand Enchanter to Sulcher’s Pass, so she could get to Val Royeaux in time to meet up with the Herald. We came back, and everything was normal for a week. Then I woke up today, and the Grand Enchanter was not only back an entire week before she was scheduled to arrive, but everything was different.”  
  
“So you weren’t affected by the spell,” Dorian murmured, having done a complete circle around her so that he was standing where he had been originally. “Why would that be, I wonder? Because you weren’t present when the moment of alteration took place? Or is it because you’re an outsider, a spy? Does having a cover story to live up to and maintain protect you from the spell?”  
  
Now was Teresa’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “First of all: I have no idea what you’re talking about. Second of all: what spell? I figured only magic could’ve done this, but not what kind.”  
  
“It was a time-altering spell,” Felix said then, coming forward to stand next to Dorian. “My father has been actively working on it for years, but it was all just theory. This is the first time he’s gotten enough power to try it. When we learned that our efforts to convince the mages here in Redcliffe to flee to Tevinter were failing, he decided to send a messenger back in time, to the troubled days when the mages first arrived. He knew they would be most vulnerable then, with the Templars snapping at their heels and with no apostates to act as a buffer. In that case, the messenger was successful in his mission, and as a result, the entire course of the future from that moment changed, erasing the original course of events from everyone’s memories.”  
  
Teresa’s eyes widened. Time magic: of _course._ “Fucking wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey _bullshit_,” she swore. “Where’s the Doctor when you need them?”  
  
Felix looked confused. “Doctor who?”  
  
“Never mind.” She shook her head to clear her thoughts, and then looked at the two mages. “You said something about your father throwing the Arl and his family out of Redcliffe.”  
  
“I did,” Felix replied with a nod. “He won’t kill them,” here he shot a brief glare at Dorian, who shrugged in reply, “but he will want them out of the castle. The fortress has only fallen three times in its entire history; my father will want to install himself in it as soon as possible to prevent himself and his allies from being ousted from this place before he can take complete control.”  
  
“And not far behind the Arl,” Dorian added, “will be every other person who isn’t a mage, or isn’t necessary for the upkeep and maintenance of the population. And the Tranquil will have to go too; given that they’ve been disappearing at alarming rates all across the south, I highly doubt they’ll make it to safety on their own.”  
  
She narrowed her eyes at Dorian. “And you expect me to help them escape – or if not me, then the Inquisition, to whom I’m supposed to get word about this whole mess.”  
  
Dorian’s smile made him heart-stoppingly handsome. “So it’s as I thought: behind those black lotus eyes is a mind as sharp as an Antivan dagger. And it _is_ Antivan, yes? Andrada sounds Antivan. Or Rivaini, but since Queen Asha’s time it’s been hard to tell the difference at times.”  
  
Teresa could _not_ control the blush that rose swiftly to her cheeks at Dorian’s compliment, but she wasn’t so lost in his words that she didn’t notice what he was asking her. “I— Yes. Antivan.”  
  
Dorian’s eyes practically twinkled at her as he approached. “Well, since we are all aware of each other’s plans, I think proper introductions are in order.” He swept her a bow. “I am Dorian of House Pavus, and my friend here is Felix of House Alexius. It appears that we three are the only people standing between Magister Alexius’ folly and all the wonderfully disastrous things that might come after.”  
  
“Not only you three.”  
  
A rush of relief filled Teresa’s chest when she heard Ichiro’s voice speaking from behind her. In a few moments Ichiro was standing on her right, and Edward on her left. She glanced at Edward inquiringly, and he replied: “I saw you step into the chantry, and when you did not come out right away, I told Ichiro. We have been here since you revealed yourself.”  
  
She nodded, and looked back at Dorian, who was eyeing them all now with unconcealed interest, though it didn’t escape her notice that his gaze lingered longest on Ichiro. “My, my. I should have known the lady wouldn’t be alone. And you are?”  
  
“I am Ichiro,” Ichiro replied, bowing his head before gesturing to Edward. “This is Edward Hanover. We, too, are agents of the Inquisition. And before you ask: yes, we are unaffected by the magister’s time-altering spell, for we remember everything the way Teresa told it to you.”  
  
Once again, Dorian’s eyebrow went up in surprise. “_Three_ agents. And you were here slightly more than a month without anyone noticing? You’re _very_ good.”  
  
Ichiro inclined his head at the compliment, his lips curling just so in a small smile. “Careful, is a better word.” He eyed Dorian for a few seconds longer, then refocused so that he was addressing both him and Felix. “We heard what you said, about the Arl and his family being forced out of the castle. We cannot help them right here and now, but we can ensure that they are safe once they are out of Redcliffe. We can extend the same protections to whoever else is forced to leave the village.”  
  
Felix smiled, relief clear in his expression. “You can? That’s good.”  
  
“But how do you intend to stop the magister?” Teresa asked.  
  
Dorian and Felix exchanged a look, and Felix shook his head.  
  
“We honestly don’t know,” he said heavily. “My father has a powerful magical artifact: an amulet, given to him by his new allies, the Venatori. Supposedly it comes from their leader. I have no clue who they are, but I do know that they have immense magical powers, because the amulet is the only thing that’s allowed my father to twist time the way he has.”  
  
Edward inclined his head in thought. “So if we take away the amulet, then we stop the magister’s plan.”  
  
“But once he takes Castle Redcliffe, that will be virtually impossible,” Felix interjected. “My father knows that once he’s behind the fortress walls, it will take all of Ferelden going to war to pry him out of it. Even if Ferelden _did_ rally together to take him down, he’d still have the amulet in the meantime, and, well…who knows what else he might accomplish with it?”  
  
“Which means we can give him no reprieve,” Dorian continued. “If Alexius rewrites too much of time, the consequences could very well be apocalyptic.”  
  
He leveled a serious look at the three of them. “You’re with the Inquisition, so you’re aware of the problems the Breach has caused, to say nothing of the little rifts that your Herald has been so busily sealing as he goes his merry, heroic way. If Alexius keeps going as he has, there is a very high possibility that he will tear even _more_ holes in the Veil, perhaps even cause a second Breach to form. And I think none of us wants to deal with more of _those_.”  
  
Teresa inhaled sharply at that information. She glanced at Ichiro and Edward. They lived in the shadow of the Breach in Haven; they knew what fell out of the thing. And even the smaller rifts could be devastating; they’d seen enough of that on their journey through the Hinterlands to get to Redcliffe. If what Dorian said was true, and Magister Alexius twisting time would create even more rifts, maybe even a second Breach…  
  
They couldn’t let that happen. They just _couldn’t_.  
  
“When you leave,” Felix said, his voice heavy with portent and, if Teresa didn’t miss her guess, just the tiniest bit of fear, “tell the Inquisition. Tell the Herald. They need to know what’s happening here, and they need to do something soon. Because if someone doesn't stop my father, Thedas will meet its end more swiftly than anyone dared thought possible.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRANSLATIONS:
> 
> Ganbatte - Japanese; means “Good luck.”
> 
> Itadaku mono wa natsu de mo kosode – Japanese; literally “A padded jacket is an acceptable gift even in summer.” It means more or less the same thing as the English proverb “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”


End file.
